CLYDE  FITCH 
From  the  Portrait  by  William  M.  Chase  at  Amherst  College 


JKemortal  Edition 


PLAYS  BY  CLYDE  FITCH 

IN    FOUR   VOLUMES 


VOLUME  ONE 
BEAU   BRUMMELL,   LOVERS'   LANE 


NATHAN    HALE 

EDITED,    WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION 

BY    MONTROSE   J     MOSES 
AND  VIRGINIA   GERSON 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,    BROWN,    AND    COMPANY 


Copyright, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


Published  in  November 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  by  J.  S.  Gushing  Co.,  Norwood,  Mass.,  U. S.A. 
Presswork  by  S.  J.  Parkhill  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


INTRODUCTION 

SIR  FRANCIS  BACON  has  written  that  "  Frend- 
ship  maketh  indeed  a  faire  day  in  the  Affections  ", 
and  it  is  because  of  the  many  fair  days  awakened 
in  our  memory  of  Clyde  Fitch,  that  we  are  at 
tempting,  in  this  foreword  to  a  Memorial  Edition 
of  some  of  his  plays,  to  re-create  the  flavor  of  his 
personality  which  was  dear  to  us.  In  the  writing 
of  biography,  there  is  no  better  course  to  fol 
low,  no  better  philosophy  to  maintain,  than  the 
inner  beauty  of  little  things,  —  those  quotidian 
moments  which  strike  sparks  from  the  spirit, 
yet  are  not  thought  of  at  the  time,  because  they 
do  not  represent  crises  in  a  life.  Maeterlinck's 
contribution  to  modern  thinking  is  that  the 
exalted  is  ever  near  us,  even  in  the  silence ;  and, 
when  he  came  to  write  essays  on  Emerson  and 
Novalis,  he  brought  into  high  light  those  moral 
qualities  underlying  the  small  act,  the  casual 
thought,  —  and  made  nothing  of  the  event. 


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vi  INTRODUCTION 

Thinking  over  our  association  with  Clyde 
Fitch,  we  find  that  what  we  remember  most  about 
him  are  those  acts  and  services  which  were  done 
largely  through  moral  forces  in  his  character. 
Under  such  conditions  it  is  difficult  to  separate 
the  man  from  the  act,  difficult  to  dissociate  the 
locality  from  the  personality,  difficult  to  assume 
an  impersonal  judgment  without  paying  a  per 
sonal  tribute.  He  was  one  of  the  best  of  friends, 
one  of  the  most  loyal  of  associates.  His  genius 
for  friendship  was  not  merely  the  ability  to  at 
tract  to  him  the  love  of  others,  but  the  gift  of 
drawing  from  others  the  best  that  was  in  them. 
In  all  of  his  activities,  he  was  ever  generous,  ever 
courteous,  ever  anxious  to  spare  the  trouble 
and  to  share  the  gain.  His  life  was  a  busy  one, 
filled  with  the  obligations  of  an  ever-increas'ng 
profession.  In  one  respect  it  may  be  said  that 
from  the  time  Clyde  Fitch  began  to  be  regarded 
as  America's  most  popular  playwright,  each  year 
found  him  externally  doing  the  same  things,  — 
fulfilling  contracts,  selecting  casts,  arranging 
rehearsals,  and  attending  " openings."  Faster 
and  faster  grew  this  whirl  of  routine  until,  during 
the  last  year  of  his  life,  he  was  attempting  suffi 
cient  to  undermine  the  health  of  the  strongest 
man.  (.Every  year  found  him  abroad,  noting 
with  the  quick  eye  of  the  trained  expert  what  was 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

best  in  the  Continental  theatres,  and  meeting 
Charles  Frohman  or  some  other  American  man 
ager,  in  order  to  read  a  manuscript  or  to  talk 
over  an  embryo  comedy.  It  was  the  life  of  a 
successful  literary  man  of  the  theatre,  and  was 
filled  with  interesting  associations,  correspond 
ences,  and  travels. 

All  of  this  may  be  brought  to  light  some  day 
in  another  form,  yet  we  cannot  but  feel  that, 
after  all  is  said,  after  the  last  word  has  been  ut 
tered,  (the  true  significance  of  Clyde  Fitch  lay  in 
the  spirit  rather  than  in  the  letter  of  what  he 
did.  The  mere  story -element  in  his  plays  is 
something  an  inventive  mind  other  than  his 
might  be  able  to  duplicate;  the' technique  of  his 
drama  is  a  matter  many  clever  playwrights  might 
be  able  to  explain.  But  the  Fitchean  flavor  of  the 
various  pieces,  the  Fitchean  humor,  observation, 
and  verbal  twist,  are  characteristics  no  one  has 
been  able  to  emulate.  Such  literary  elusiveness 
is  what  is  meant  when  we  say  that  the  style  is 
the  man.  Since  the  death  of  Clyde  Fitch,  the 
New  York  stage  —  and  that  means  the  stage  of 
the  entire  country  —  has  missed  his  .distinctive 
contributions  to  a  dramatic  season.  Without 
exactly  analyzing  why,  we  believe  that  the -Fitch 
theatregoing  public  miss  him  for  exactly  the 
same  reason  —  though  not  so  intimate  a  one  — 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

as  his  friends  miss  him.  The  personal  equation 
is  gone,  and  all  that  is  left  of  him  is  the  rich 
memory  of  his  presence,  —  and  his  plays  which 
must  ever  be  regarded  as  healthy  contributions 
to  American  drama.  We  who  knew  him  see  in 
those  plays  a  large  part  of  the  man  himself,  — 
sympathy  for  human  problems,  quick  observa 
tion  of  minute  details,  interest  in  moral  actions 
and  their  consequences,  the  love  of  beautiful 
things,  and  a  refreshing  approach  toward  life. 
Those  are  the  qualities  which  no  artifice  can 
create,  —  those  are  the  inner  beauties  which  are 
unconsciously  born  of  the  character  of  thought 
a,nd  expression.  And  that  is  why  the  personality 
of  Clyde  Fitch  is  bound  up  in  his  work. 

If  his  life  were  to  be  told  in  brief,  we  should 
point  to  his  childhood  in  Schenectady,  New 
York  ;  his  college  days  at  Amherst ;  his  struggles 
to  maintain  himself  in  New  York  with  his  short 
stories;  his  writing  of  "Beau  Brummell;" 
and  then  the  open  but  slow  road  toward 
success.  We  remember  one  of  his  anecdotes 
about  a  reading  he  gave  in  Schenectady,  where 
he  returned  in  after  years.  The  account  was 
scribbled  on  a  train  as  he  was  going  to  Chicago 
where  " Nathan  Hale"  was  to  be  rehearsed. 
The  reading  at  Schenectady  was  to  be  from  this 
play,  and  from  his  "Smart  Set"  sketches.  In 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

the  large  audience  that  turned  out  to  greet  him, 
he  recognized  the  familiar  face  of  his  little,  fat 
music  teacher  whose  sense  of  humor  got  the  better 
of  her  as  she  listened  to  the  story.  She  had 
hysterics,  he  said  in  the  letter,  and  looked  so 
funny  that  he  dropped  his  book  on  the  floor 
and  laughed  for  five  whole  minutes,  keep:ng  the 
audience  waiting  meanwhile.  Clyde  Fitch  never 
lost  that  hearty,  natural,  boyish  laugh  of  his ; 
there  was  a  contagious  "funniness"  about  it  that 
was  good  to  hear. 

He  was  always  proud  of  his  Amherst  connec 
tion;  always  proud  of  the  college  pride  in  him. 
Those  who  are  fortunate  enough  to  look  back 
on  undergraduate  days  with  him  will  recollect 
a  certain  reticence,  a  certain  shyness  which  at 
times  misled  people  as  to  the  firmness  beneath. 
This  latter  characteristic  is  exemplified  by  a 
story  told  in  retrospect  by  one  of  Mr.  Fitch's 
professors.  "I  remember,"  he  said,  "that  when 
Clyde  first  appeared  upon  the  campus,  he  wore 
a  suit  of  a  peculiar  blue  —  sufficiently  blue  and 
peculiar  to  call  down  upon  him' the  ruthless  jibing 
of  the  upper  classmen.  For  days  he  persisted 
in  his  attire,  and  faced  the  music.  So  I  was 
not  surprised  when,  one  evening,  he  put  in  his 
appearance  at  my  house.  He  explained  the 
situation  and  asked  my  advice.  I  felt  that 


x  INTRODUCTION 

whatever  decision  he  might  make  must  come  from 
him,  and  I  told  him  so.  Then  in  a  perfectly 
quiet  voice  he  said,  as  he  turned  to  go,  'I  guess 
I'll  stick  it  out.'  " 

We  have  vividly  in  mind  a  picture  of  the  col 
lege  graduate  launched  upon  a  career  of  his  own 
choosing.  For  if  Clyde  Fitch  had  followed  his 
father's  choice  he  would  have  been  an  architect. 
He  always  possessed  a  strong  art  taste,  manifest 
in  his  collecting  of  antiques,  and  asserting  itself 
in  the  three  homes  he  came  to  build.  But,  at 
the  beginning,  his  art  taste  and  his  literary  in 
come  were  incompatible.  Those  who  saw  him 
in  his  studio  days,  saw  the  real  artist  —  always 
eager  for  some  objet  d'art,  and  spending  his  small 
checks  —  paid  him  for  his  stories  —  in  some 
much-coveted  prize. 

Mr.  Fitch  was  ever  eager  to  enjoy  these  hu 
morous  anecdotes  about  himself.  He  never  re 
garded  himsslf  as  anything  more  than  the  average 
man,  endowed  with  a  gift  which  he  used  to  the 
very  best  of  his  ability.  And  we  suppose  the 
incidents  that  went  to  make  up  his  life  were 
not  extraordinary,  despite  the  special  atmosphere 
which  his  calling  created  around  him.  (But  his 
significance  rests  in  his  achievement,  ana  in  the 
manner  in  which  he\  responded  to  the  daily  hap 
penings  in  his  life.  Like  all  boys,  there  came  a 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

time  when  he  had  to  break  from  his  youthful  sur 
roundings  in  order  to  develop  himself,  but  this 
break  left  him  with  an  affectionate  feeling  for 
those  faces  that  looked  out  at  him  from  faded  tin 
types.  There  is  no  telling  how  much  of  those 
associations  slipped  into  his  plays.  He  never, 
however,  broke  from  those  early  ties.  There  was 
a  tremendous  element  of  pride  in  the  make-up 
of  Clyde  Fitch;  he  was  thoroughly  conscious 
of  his  family  position,  and  his  reverence  for  rela 
tionship  was  only  another  evidence  of  that 
loyalty  we  have  spoken  of.  There  was  likewise  a 
pride  in  his  friendship,  shown  whenever  someone 
close  to  him  met  with  deserved  recognition.  With 
this  pride  went  a  dignity  which  began  to  assert 
itself  in  some  of  his  earliest  business  relations. 

One  cannot  read  the  plays  included  in  this 
Memorial  Edition  without  feeling  how  evident 
was  the  spiritual  development  of  Clyde  Fitch. 
In  a  copy  of  "Beau  Brummell,"  sent  to  a  friend, 
he  wrote,  "I  send  this  as  a  curiosity.  It  was 
my  Alpha  Beta.  But  how  well  the  theatre  has 
progressed  beyond  the  bric-a-brac  stage."  He 
had  his  bric-a-brac  expression  —  a  youthful 
exuberance  that  never  left  him,  —  a  decorative- 
ness  which  is  a  part  of  fresh  rather  than  of  staid 
vision.  In  four  of  his  dramas  this  unusual  color 
found  dominant  expression.  Mr.  Fitch  took 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

peculiar  personal  pleasure  in  the  "period"  story. 
To  the  details  of  writing  he  gave  special  care; 
and  when  the  time  came  to  externalize  them,  he 
was  untiring  in  his  efforts.  Even  in  such  a 
simple  comedy  as  "Lovers'  Lane,"  during  re 
hearsals,  he  spent  hours  fastening  apples  and 
pinning  blossoms  in  the  orchard  scene.  In 
"Beau  Erummell,"  at  the  very  outset  of  his 
career,  he  manifested  a  characteristic  care,  while 
in  "Barbara  Frietchie"  and  "Nathan  Hale"  his 
correspondence  shows  a  particularity  which  was 
thorough  and  searching.  His  special  expert- 
ness  in  feminine  psychology,  as  exemplified  in  a 
series  of  plays  culminating  in  "The  Girl  with  the 
Green  Eyes"  and  "The  Truth,"  became  in  later 
years  his  greatest  bone  of  contention  with  the 
critics,  who  denied  that  he  would  ever  be  able 
to  depict  a  man's  character.  As  an  answer  to 
this  charge  he  gave  to  the  public  one  of  his 
most  vivid  stage  personages  —  Sam  Coast,  in 
"Her  Great  Match,"  —  and  this  vigor  on  his 
part  was  but  the  beginning  of  that  decisiveness 
and  sharpness  ^uppermost  in  "The  City."  In 
some  of  his  very  earliest  comedies,  Clyde  Fitch 
likewise  won  for  himself  the  title  of  the  play 
wright  of  New  York  city,  and  no  one  has  as  yet 
been  able  to  surpass  him  in  catching  the  evanes 
cent  peculiarities  of  the  town.  "Captain  Jinks 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

of  the  Horse  Marines"  had  all  the  flavor  of  old- 
time  personal  experience;  it  was  not  something 
Mr.  Fitch  had  read  about,  but  something  he 
seemed  to  have  felt.  Here  was  his  old  love  for  a 
"period"  cropping  out.  But  between  that  and 
"Girls"  -his  most  realistic  and  detailed  treat 
ment  of  apartment-house  life  in  its  externals  — 
there  are  a  great  many  of  his  dramas  that  are 
excellent  Kodak  films  of  the  city,  subject  to  his 
sensitized  impression. 

Looking  on  these  plays  from  their  outside, 
there  is  a  superabundance  of  cleverness  which  in 
itself  would  have  won  for  him  a  name.  Mr. 
Fitch  had  the  fictionist's  feeling  of  character  for 
its  own  sake  to  such  a  superabundant  degree 
that,  as  in  the  case  of  "The  Happy  Marriage" 
—  which  he  always  seemed  to  treasure  as  a  good, 
piece  of  work  —  he  would  throw  away  in  casual 
reference  whole  ideas  and  situations  capable 
of  serious  development.  It  was  this  ease  of 
technique  that  sometimes  belied  the  deeper  pene 
tration  beneath,  which  he  possessed  and  which 
dominated  his  conversation.  When  the  actual 
time  came  for  writing,  the  rapidity  of  his  mere 
recording  was  no  measure  of  the  many  years 
he  may  have  pondered  over  a  subject  for  his 
play.  How  often  —  long  before  he  put  pen  to 
paper  —  would  he  exclaim  that  he  was  anxious 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

to  get  at  his  "  jealousy  piece  ",  meaning,  of  course, 
"The  Girl  with  the  Green  Eyes."  Often  we  have 
seen  him,  seated  on  a  stone  by  the  country 
side,  writing  with  a  rapidity  comparable  to  an 
artist  sketching.  Many  of  his  friends  remember 
his  temptation,  while  at  the  Opera,  to  jot  down 
bits  of  dialogue  —  for  music  always  set  his  imag 
ination  astir.  Yet  he  would  never  obtrude  his 
inventive  vagaries  upon  others.  When  the  cur 
tain  was  down,  he  was  always  the  centre  of  con 
versation,  always  the  life  of  the  party.  But 
we  have  a  feeling  that  he  regarded  his  attendance 
as  a  member  of  the  Opera  Club  simply  as  a  means 
toward  an  end. 

It  was  that  quality  of  mental  arrangement 
which  enabled  him  to  set  down  on  paper  whole 
situations  with  a  rapidity  which  critics  called 
haste.  He  once  wrote  from  Italy,  ".  .  .1  don't 
think  the  writing  them  [the  two  plays  on  which 
he  was  at  work]  made  me  ill ;  I  knew  so  well 
what  I  wanted  to  write  —  it  was  copying  some 
thing  that  one  knows  by  heart."  And  from 
London,  on  May  24th,  1902,  about  "The  Girl 
with  the  Green  Eyes,"  he  wrote,  "I  have  also 
just  finished  to-day  Act  i  of  Mrs.  Bloodgood's 
play.  Of  course  it  seems  as  if  I  were  doing  an 
awful  lot  of  work.  And  I  suppose  it  would  be 
better  if  I  didn't  do  so  much,  but  I  can't  help 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

it !  I  limit  my  writing  to  three  hours  a  day. 
However,  the  point  about  these  plays  is  that  I 
know  them  almost  by  heart.  I've  been  plan 
ning  the  Mannering  piece  since  a  year  ago  last 
Winter.  I  know  it  all ;  it  only  wanted  to  be  writ 
ten  down,  and  the  same  with  the  Bloodgood  piece. 
It  isn't  as  if  I  had  to  think  up  plot  and  situations. 
I've  had  them  for  a  long  time." 

In  other  words,  his  method  of  workmanship 
revealed  Clyde  Fitch's  intense  nervous  vitality; 
his  was  a  type  of  mind  to  take  quickly,  to  hold 
tenaciously,  and  to  communicate  to  others, 
through  association,  that  same  subtle  unrest 
which  stimulates  rather  than  wears  out.  Suc 
cess  never  brought  to  him  a  self-satisfied  outlook 
upon  his  work  ;  his  deepening  view  of  life  was  too 
vital  for  that.  What  it  did  seem  to  do  to  the 
very  day  of  his  death  was  to  stir  him  to  better 
effort.  He  was  one  of  those  rare  workers  who 
took  criticism  with  a  bigness  and  eagerness 
which  only  accentuated  more  fully  his  keenness  to 
his  defects.)  Writing  from  Paris,  in  July,  1905, 
he  made  this  confession :"...!  still  am  working 
like  a  horse,  but  I  hope  like  one  of  those  trained, 
intelligent  horses!  Now,  on  the  changes  neces 
sary  in  'Her  Great  Match'  for  London;  next 
on  my  Blanche  Walsh  play  ["The  Woman  in  the 
Case"];  and  to-morrow  I  go  to  London  to  cast 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

the  Frohman  play,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  And  altogether 
more  than  I  can  do,  or  more  than  I  want  to  d*o ! 
But  if  I  can  only  do  it  well !  I  am  trying.  I 
think  each  year  I  try  better  to  do  better." 

Such  pressure  which  came  with  success  was 
what  always  beset  Clyde  Fitch,  the  workman. 
It  was  not  what  he  wanted,  but  what  theatrical 
condition  imposed  on  him.  He  had  little  time 
to  do  things  leisurely.  His  morning  mail  was 
read  rapidly  and  appreciatively;  his  letters 
were  answered  out  of  the  fulness  of  the  moment, 
—  of  ten  prompted,  not  by  the  immediate  neces 
sity  of  the  occasion,  but  because  of  some  purely 
human  quality  discovered  in  a  phrase  or  sentence. 
While  abroad  he  would  scribble  notes  on  trains 
or  in  motor-cars,  flowing  over  into  the  margins 
of  the  paper  with  an  unchecked  love  of  recording 
impressions.  These  letters  —  often  postcards  — 
were  weighted  down  with  personal  flashes,  show 
ing  humor,  pathos,  appreciation;  recording 
plans  in  naive  declarations;  describing  people 
and  places  with  that  surface  irony  which  critics 
always  took  at  its  surface  value,  never  giving 
Mr.  Fitch  credit  for  something  deeper  behind 
it  all.  These  communications  were  significant 
in  their  revelation  of  the  man.  A  letter  from 
Florence,  1902,  came  to  its  destination  laden  with 
the  joyful  appreciation  of  beauty,  but,  he  con- 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

f esses,  "while  I  can  look  at  pictures  alone,  I  hate 
to  eat  alone.  Just  to  eat  bores  me."  Yet  his 
sociable  instincts  did  not  take  from  him  an  abid 
ing  love  for  the  silence.  . 

This  rush  of  work  which  followed  him  to  town 
whenever  he  left  his  country  place ;  which  trailed 
him  across  continent,  making  his  progress  a  hasty 
circuit  of  live  observations  and  rapid  business 
negotiations  —  did  not  deprive  him  of  a  very 
serious  attitude  toward  his  work.  If  there  was 
one  quality  uppermost  in  Clyde  Fitch,  the  crafts 
man,  it  was  his  never-failing  belief  in  what  he  had 
done.  He  wrote  from  Berlin,  in  April,  1908,  "I 

wish  you  dear ,  who  have  always  taken  me  and 

my  work  seriously,  and  know  what  I  put  into  it, 
and  from  what  a  standard  I  wrote,  could  have 
shared  my  joy  and  satisfaction  at  Hamburg 
[over  the  reception  of  'The  Truth']."  With 
that  tendency  of  his  to  underscore  and  double 
underscore  his  emphasis  in  letters,  he  declared, 
in  August,  1900,  from  St.  Enogat,  France,  "I 
have  had  a  disappointment.  Frohman  decides 
not  to  do  'The  Climbers.'  It  is  a  real  bitter 
disappointment,  for  I  believe  so  much  in  the  play." 

This  belief  led  him  to  spend  as  much  energy 
nurturing  a  play  after  it  was  launched,  as  he 
expended  in  the  actual  composition.  Convic 
tion  brought  out  a  dogged  persistence  which  was 


xvlii  INTRODUCTION 

often  needed  in  the  face  of  failure.  But  while 
maintaining  a  bold  front  to  the  public,  his  letters 
showed  continually  how  much  criticism  discouraged 
him.  (Though  we  recognize  in  "The  Truth" 
some  of  his  best  and  most  characteristic  work 
manship  —  it  having  attained  Continental  dis 
tinction  —  its  initial  production  in  New  York 
was  a  failure.  It  was  a  play  he  believed  in,  and 
he  slaved  to  keep  it  on  the  stage.  In  this  in 
stance,  criticism  nearly  killed  him,  "convincing 
me,"  so  he  wrote,  "that  it  is  impossible  for  me 
to  succeed  in  New  York  with  the  present  press, 
-  which  will  mean  my  laying  down  my  pen." 

This  press  served  to  accentuate  two  dominant 
traits  in  Clyde  Fitch :  his  sensitiveness,  and  his 
patience,.  From  the  time  of  "Beau  Brummell," 
he  was  constantly  repudiated  by  the  dramatic 
critic.  Yet  we  know  from  experience  that  no 
more  open-minded  man  could  be  found  than  he 
in  his  eagerness  to  welcome  suggestion  and  in  his 
readiness  to  accept  advice.  We  have  seen  a 
lengthy  letter  of  his  analyzing,  with  some  justi 
fication,  -the  stereotyped  view  of  him  held  in 
America;  whereas  abroad  his  recognition  was 
based  on  qualities  never  attributed  to  him  at 
home.  I  fear,  he  said  in  substance,  the  press 
has  crystallized  toward  me.  On  another  occa 
sion  he  asked  a  critic  to  see  one  of  his  plays  over 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

again,  valuing  his  opinion,  and  personally  dis 
tressed  that  his  opinion  was  a  negative  one. 
There  was  no  vainglory  about  this ;  there  was 
an  earnest  desire  to  have  his  work  r.s  right  as  he 
could  see  it  and  make  it. 

In  other  words,  there  was  nothing  external 
after  all  in  the  representative  plays  of  Clyde 
Fitch;  they  were  all  closely  evolved  out  of  his 
own  personality;  representative  cf  his  relation 
ships,  his  outlook  on  life.  He  may  have  excelled 
in  external  detail,  but  the  literary  value  cf  his 
work  lies  in  the  truth  of  his  observation,  and  in 
the  sincerity  of  his  feeling  for  character.  His 
thought  was  subservient. to  these,  and  sometimes 
overclouded  by  the  cleverness  cf  theatrical  effect. 
(Those  who  knew  Clyde  Fitch  were  at  first 
drawn  to  him  through  n  brilliancy  of  conversa 
tion  which;  however  sparkling  in  his  dialogue, 
was  brought  within  bounds  as  soon  as  set  down 
in  jwc-rds.  He  had  a  great  dislike  for  the  medi 
ocre.  He  had  many  worldly  interests,  and  his 
quick  action,  coupled  with  these,  gave  the  im 
pression  that  he  lacked  the  powers  of  contempla 
tion,  of  concentration.  Yet  soon,  association 
with  Mr.  Fitch  revealed  a  reverence  and  an 
humbleness  which  brought  into  play  a  certain 
calm  reflection  of  his  religious  life.  We  remember 
him  being  enthralled  by  the  reading  of  Kenan's 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

"Life  of  Christ;"  referring  time  and  time  again 
to  the  mystical  devoutness  of  Maeterlinck. 
Some  might  disbelieve  that  he  had  deep-founded 
principles  of  faith;  yet  he  was  almost  old-fash 
ioned  in  his  moral  acceptances,  though  welcom 
ing  and  intellectually  tolerant  of  the  broadness 
of  others.  In  people  near  him  he  required  per 
manent  Tightness  of  thought,  and  reverence  for 
the  Real  Thing,  as  his  tradition  taught  him. 
He  was  once  heard  to  say,  "I  can  tell  those  that 
pray  and  those  that  do  not." 

It  was  impressed  very  strongly  upon  Mr. 
Fitch's  friends  that  he  had  other  interests  in 
life  besides  the  theatre.  Those  things  were 
necessary  to  him  that  developed  the  essential 
humanness  of  his  nature.  Slow  to  give  his 
friendship,  —  though  ever  willing  to  give  plenti 
fully  of  his  interest,  —  he  clung  to  his  permanent 
friends,  even  in  the  country,  and  less  and  less 
found  satisfaction  in  the  promiscuous  associa 
tions  of  social  life.  Even  to  his  valet  he  was  a 
hero,  though  nothing  pleased  him  more  than  to 
"  get  a  rise,"  as  he  would  laughingly  put  it, 
out  of  his  valet's  implacable  presence.  We 
remember,  after  Mr.  Fitch's  death,  the  grief 
of  his  man  —  an  old-fashioned  type  of  French 
servant,  whose  devotion  had  been  tested  in 
many  ways.  "We  shall  never  forget  what  you 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

have  done,"  a  member  of  the  family  said,  out 
of  the  fulness  of  the  moment.  And  he  replied 
simply:  "A  good  master  makes  a  good  servant." 
Such  was  his  tribute  ! 

Loyalty  was  deeply  ingrained  in  Mr.  Fitch's 
character,  nor  was  it  a  heedless  offering  of  his 
friendship.  There  are  many  pictures  of  Clyde 
Fitch  to  conjure  up  in  mind,  the  rarest  being  that 
of  friend.  We  have  noticed  his  letters  signed 
"loyally  yours,"  and  they  were  addressed  only 
to  those  who  had  been  proven.  He  had  great 
patience  with  the  people  he  trusted,  —  and  when 
he  trusted,  he  did  so  unreservedly,  even  up  to 
the  very  verge  of  doubt.  His  gratitude  was 
abounding,  and  was  called  forth  unexpectedly 
by  the  most  insignificant  thing.  Many  actors 
will  remember  how  quick  he  was  to  detect  in 
them  the  slightest  evidence  of  generosity,  accen 
tuating  it  beyond  its  due  proportion,  and  recall 
ing  it  on  all  occasions.  Plow  well  we  understood 
that  response  in  him  which  prompted  him  to  add 
a  postscript  to  one  of  his  letters,  "Give  my  love 
to  those  who  remember  me,  and  to  those  who 
don't,  —  if  7  love  them." 

One  could  never  quite  forget  the  companion- 
ableness  of  the  man.  We  remember  once  on  a 
visit  to  him,  hearing  him  call  to  us,  "Don't  you 
want  to  come  down  and  have  a  cookie?"  And 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

when  we  came  to  the  Terrace  where  he  was 
working,  there  would  be  no  cookie,  and  he  would 
go  on  writing !  But  he  knew  that  we  were  feel 
ing  the  beauty  of  the  country  with  him  —  were 
understanding  beyond  the  mere  necessity  for 
interchange  of  words. 

This  dramatist  of  city  life  was  a  great  lover 
of  nature ;  he  revelled  in  the  out-of-doors ;  and 
his  garden  was  humanized  for  him.  It  was  very 
characteristic  of  him  that  even  in  the  simple 
things  of  life  his  dramatic  eye  saw  every  detail 
with  freshness,  and  he  expressed  what  he  saw 
with  a  vivacity,  an  unusualness,  that  gave  life 
to  the  picture.  When  he  was  moving  from  "Quiet 
Corner"  to  "The  Other  House,"  he  wrote  to  a 
friend : 

"We  are  moving!.!  The  study  is  empty! 
There  is  hardly  a  picture  left !  The  walls  show 
thin  wounds ! 

"I  go  daily  to  '  T.  O.  H.',  buried  in  a  heap  of 
Old  Masters,  inside  Pauline  (Panhard). 

"Ed.  is  planting  trees,  and  I  am  planting  pic 
tures,  and  Monday  we  hope  the  curtains  will 
sprout  in  the  windows ;  and  Friday  of  next  week 
I  think  the  Katonah  katydids  will  be  singing  my 
lullaby ! ! 

"Awful  scandal  at  '  Q.  C.M  In  the  Spring  we 
put  nine  goldfish  in  the  pool,  and,  when  Bridge 
emptied  it  out  this  morning,  there  were  sixty- 
five  !!!'" 


INTRODUCTION 


And,  with  that  never-failing  hospitality  of  his, 
he  added: 

"Why  can't  you  make  a  real  visit  .  .  .  and  not 
just  play  'tag'  with  the  trains?" 

" Quiet  Corner,"  in  Greenwich,  was  built  so 
that  Mr.  Fitch  might  live  most  of  the  time  out 
in  the  open;  "The  Other  House,"  at  Katonah, 
gave  him  joy  because  it  brought  within  reach 
all  the  beauties  of  a  car  country.  The  latter 
house,  it  is  our  impression,  offered  him  greater 
peace,  and  here  he  would  turn  with  relief  after 
hard  work  in  the  city.  In  May,  his  East  For 
tieth  Street  house  lost  its  holding  power  on  him. 
"It  mortifies  me,"  he  writes,  "to  imagine  what 
the  lilacs  must  be  thinking  of  us  for  not  coming 
out.  When  I  left,  they  had  their  little  buds 
all  ready  to  unpack !  and  -the  syringa  bush  was 
giggling  with  little  leaves  ! !  " 

On  one  of  his  very  last  rides  around  Katonah, 
before  going  abroad  on  his  final  trip,  he  spoke 
of  the  glories  of  the  Fall,  and  the  burning  red  of 
the  trees.  And  his  heart  seemed  to  go  out  to  an 
old  countryman  on  the  road,  who,  all  smiles, 
passed  us  with  a  nosegay  in  his  ragged  button 
hole.  "Behind  that  flower  is  love,"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Fitch. 

This  spirit  in  him  often  found  expression  in  his 


INTRODUCTION 

correspondence.  "I  love  the  world,"  he  wrote. 
And  this  expansion  came  over  him  not  suddenly 
but  by  slow  process  of  spiritual  deepening. 
For  there  was  a  time  when  Clyde  Fitch  might 
easily  have  fallen  into  the  ways  of  dilettantism  - 
those  Sherwood  Studio  days  on  Fifty-seventh 
Street,  when  social  life  was  trying  to  overcome 
his  desires  to  work.  And  the  exactions  of  a  suc 
cessful  career  imposed  upon  him  many  of  the 
surface  responsibilities,  until  that  deepening  of 
the  spiritual  side  of  him  began  to  alter  his  entire 
approach  toward  life, —  an  altering  that  meant 
a  clearer  assertion  of  his  philosophy.  This  is 
seen  in  flashes  of  his  later  dialogue,  and  was 
strongly  marked  in  "The  City,"  which  was  not 
only  uttered  in  strength  of  conviction,  but  was 
physically  written  with  defined  intention  of 
purpose.  His  handwriting  seemed  to  have  gained 
a  firmer  stroke. 

More  and  more  he  began  to  value,  above  all 
other  experiences,  the  Real  Things  in  life.  This 
is  very  apparent  in  his  work  —  the  increasing 
maturity  of  which  can  be  detected  from  play 
to  play  along  the  entire  course  of  his  writing. 
Though  he  may  have  dealt,  as  a  satirist,  with 
the  shams  of  social  life,  the  thing  that  struck 
most  people  who  came  in  contact  with  Clyde 
Fitch  was  that  he  was  eminently  sincere.  And 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

that  sincerity  he  looked  for  in  the  approach  of 
others.  We  do  not  recollect  that  he  was  given 
to  retort  unless  it  was  called  for  by  some  insin 
cerity  of  a  friend,  or  some  false  statement  of  a 
critic.  And  when  that  was  the  case,  the  occasion 
brought  from  him  characteristic  touches  of  un 
derstanding,  and  a  true  measure  of  the  Real 
Thing. 

An  Editor  once  sent  him  the  first  three  num 
bers  of  a  new  magazine,  in  which  some  reference 
had  been  made  to  him  and  his  work.  We  quote 
his  acknowledgment  intact,  for  it  exemplifies  an 
originality  of  phrase,  a  generous  interest  in 
current  literary  matters,  and,  above  all,  an 
outspoken  expression  of  belief  as  regards  himself. 

"Since  writing  you,"  [it  runs]  "I've  been  able 
to  take  up  your  three  numbers,  and  with  much 
interest.  I  congratulate  you  on  an  individual 
tone  which  you  have  certainly  attained.  The 
magazine  has  character.  ...  In  my  own  field, 
however  — !  Your  writer  is  in  earnest,  and 
evidently  deserves  a  good  end,  but  I  regret  to 
find  he  is  not  working  on  new  lines,  or  with  new 
thoughts.  He  is  not  of  the  early  Victorian 
Period,  but  I  should  say  of  the  early  McKinley. 
He  repeats  the  old  theories,  the  old  formulas,  of 
what  is  good  and  what  isn't,  the  point  of  view 
about  our  drama  of  over  a  dozen  years  ago, 
when  the  whole  thing  was  stereotyped.  Your 
writer  does  not  feel  the  new  current.  I  mean 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

just  that,  exactly,  —  he  floats  on  the  surface, 
and  sees  only  the  surface.  Clothes  are  not  the 
man,  though  they  may  be  characteristic  of  him. 
Your  writer  does  not  seem  to  me  to  realize  what 
is  underneath,  which  is  the  Real  Thing.  The 
Real  Thing  exists  without  a  surface,  but  the  sur 
face  adds  to  it  one  more  note  of  value,  besides 
its  own  personal  value  of  being  an  individual 
characteristic.  Wherefore:  when  your  writer 
says  of  my  work  that  it  is  '  still  chiefly  a  display 
of  dramatic  millinery,'  then,  for  me,  whatever 
he  may  say  of  the  drama  is  worthless.  No  one 
knows  better  than  I  that  my  work  is  full  of  faults ; 
that's  why  I  go  on  writing,  —  to  correct  them,  — 
at  least  it's  one  reason  why.  But  your  man 
hasn't  hit  the  right  faults  —  not  by  a  long  shot ! 
At  least,  7  think  that ;  I  may  be  wrong.  All  this 
because  I  had  a  few  moments,  and  the  tele 
phone  bell  hasn't  rung  since  I  began." 

When  Mr.  Fitch  moved  to  Katonah  from 
Greenwich,  he  seemed  to  take  a  different  hold 
on  life;  the  negatives  of  existence  were  halted. 
His  health  had  been  almost  undermined  by  the 
exactions  of  a  busy  career,  and  now  he  was 
beginning  to  hate  all  things  that  suggested  vac 
illation,  weakness,  or  ill-health.  We  have  met 
him  often  on  the  East  Terrace  of  "The  Other 
House,"  seeing  with  an  eye  as  profoundly  simple 
as  Wordsworth's,  when  he  wrote  his  simplest 
lyric.  "It  was  a  lovely  day,  to-day,"  he  declares 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

in  a  note,  dated  May,  1909,  "  .  .  .  All  afternoon 
I've  been  out  on  the  Terrace.  The  swans  be 
haved  like  angels !  Even  a  white  pond  lily 
spread  her  wings  on  the  pool.  The  peacock 
spread  his  tail  —  and  you  weren't  there !  I 
couldn't  bear  your  not  seeing  all  the  poetry  and 
beauty  in  the  day  —  and  now  (it  is  seven  o'clock) 
there  is  that  divine  murmuring  sunset-light 
everywhere  about!" 

Again  in  June  of  that  year,  there  is  this  spon 
taneous  expression  of  himself:  "I've  just  come 
in  from  a  walk  with  Buck,  Betsy,  and  Fiametta 
[his  dogs].  We  walked  across  the  meadow  in  the 
moonlight.  The  swans  sailed  softly  mirrored, 
like  Narcissus  in  the  pool,  and  up  in  the  rose 
garden  it  was  thick  with  fireflies !  !  It  was  ex 
quisitely  beautiful." 

This  poetic  quality  was  ever  alive,  and  made 
of  him  a  splendid  companion  on  a  journey.  Noth 
ing  seemed  to  escape  his  quick  observation,  and 
he  was  able  to  convert  the  impression  almost 
simultaneously  into  terms  of  human  value. 
Travelling  extensively,  he  picked  up  here  and 
there  chance  acquaintances,  from  whom  he  gained 
a  transitory  enjoyment  which  was  delightfully 
described  in  his  letters.  On  such  occasions  his 
humor  was  never-failing  in  its  assertion.  There 
was  a  home  quality  about  Clyde  Fitch  that  few 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION 

people  believed  he  had,  simply  because  his  work 
kept  him  so  constantly  on  the  go.  A  jotting, 
dated  January,  1906,  expressed  eloquently  his 
feelings  on  the  subject.  "Had  a  ho  telly  dinner 
in  a  ho  telly  hotel.  Rehearsals  going  well - 
but  what  a  life  for  a  man  who  isn't  in  the  drummer 
business ! !  " 

On  the  steamer,  on  the  railroad  train,  he  was 
ever  alert  in  the  study  of  his  companions.  When 
he  saw  one,  seemingly  in  lonely  mood,  he  was 
drawn  to  him  through  a  sympathy  which  he  was 
ever  ready  to  show.  Sometimes,  these  impul 
sive  moves  on  his  part  rewarded  him  beyond  his 
expectations.  It  was  on  an  ocean  liner  that 
chance  brought  him  in  contact  with  an  elderly 
lady  of  the  Old  School,  whose  friendship  he  always 
held  in  deepest  consideration,  and  whose  corre 
spondence  with  him  was  a  constant  source  of 
inspiration.  On  the  other  hand,  in  carriage 
compartments  he  would  often  meet  with  con 
versationalists  who  amused  him  up  to  the  mo 
ment  of  unsought-for  advice.  "Don't  stop  off 
at  Pisa,"  one  of  these  chance  acquaintances 
pleaded,  "there's  nothing  to  see  there  but  the 
tower,"  and  then  he  added,  in  the  spirit  of  the 
perfect  utilitarian,  "You  can  see  that  from  the 
train."  Yet  "I  got  out,"  adds  Mr.  Fitch  in  a 
letter,  "and  have  been  here  for  three  days." 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

How  the  beauty  must  have  steeped  his  soul  is 
detected  in' the  mood  of  what  follows:  "  The 
nights  in  these  beautiful  towns  are  all  sad  nights. 
One  feels  the  need  of  some  one  'to  sit  in  silence 
with." 

It  was  characteristic  of  Mr.  Fitch  that  quick 
ness  of  humor  went  side  by  side  with  a  heart 
quality  which  made  his  humor  all  the  more  lov 
able.  This  gave  a  brilliant  flash  to  his  corre 
spondence  that  desultory  quoting  can  only  sug 
gest.  Yet  these  suggestions  reveal  an  inherited 
fund  of  native  freshness.  "Am  bringing  over 
with  me  an  1860  English  cook,"  he  remarks  from 
London,  in  1901,  "who  looks  like  a  hair-cloth 
and  rose- wood  armchair  —  an  ugly  one."  In 
another  breath  he  is  referring  to  a  dinner  engage 
ment  which  forces  him  to  cut  short  his  letter. 
"I  wish  I  could  be  chloroformed,"  he  declared. 
He  had  the  amusing  habit  of  making  light  of  his 
own  discomforts  as  a  seaman,  and,  in  a  log  kept 
of  a  typical  day  and  night  aboard,  we  find  such 
entries  as,  U8:oo.  Try  to  sleep  on  my  back. 
8  :  30.  Vice  versa." 

This  infinite  variety,  so  manifest  in  infinite 
ways,  is  what  made  the  friendship  of  Clyde  Fitch 
a  rare  day  in  the  affections.  If  he  was  among 
his  flowers,  he  showed  personal  care  for  each 
rose  bush.  His  animals  and  birds  received  from 


xxx  INTRODUCTION 

him  a  goodly  share  of  his  day's  attention.  Even 
in  the  midst  of  strenuous  work,  with  guests  in 
the  house,  he  would  write  with  a  wonderful  power 
of  giving  everything  and  everyone  personal  con 
sideration.  He  possessed  a  rare  ability  of  self- 
effacement.  Yet  no  one  was  more  delighted 
than  he  when  a  person  for  whom  he  cared  showed 
interest  in  what  he  was  doing. 

Then  it  was  that  he  would  talk  of  his  characters, 
and  of  the  situations  he  had  recently  invented, 
and  he  would  ask  advice  as  though  he  were  in 
collaboration.  Were  the  guest  fortunate  enough 
to  be  taken  even  deeper  into  his  confidence, 
probably  Mr.  Fitch  would  read  the  newest  play 
to  him.  And  that  was  no  mean  opportunity, 
for  it  was  a  saying  among  theatrical  people,  "If 
you  don't  want  to  accept  a  play  by  Clyde  Fitch 
on  the  spot,  don't  let  him  reid  it  to  you  !"  Our 
memory  retains  vividly  the  details  of  that  even 
ing  "The  City"  was  finished  —  in  the  rough 
state  just  before  final  revision.  He  read  it  aloud ; 
the  graphic  power  of  his  acting  in  the  quiet  of 
the  country,  far  into  the  early  hours  of  the 
morning,  is  never  to  be  forgotten.  Though  he 
never  went  on  the  stage,  his  ability  to  illustrate 
what  he  was  anxious  to  obtain  in  acting,  was 
constantly  manifest.  And  his  gratefulness  to 
the  actor  who  worked  with  him  to  gain  these 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

effects  was  never-failing.  To  one  of  them  he 
wrote,  just  after  having  been  interviewed:  "I 
said  the  most  enthusiastic  things  I  could  think 
of,  of  you  —  because  I  feel  them."  Such  enthusi 
asm  for  the  individual  always  culminated  with 
him  in  such  exclamations  as,  "God  bless  the 
personal  equation  —  and  God  bless  you."  In 
November  of  1908,  a  letter  contained  some  refer 
ence  which  illustrated  in  poignant  fashion  his 
gratitude  for  the  actor's  faithfulness.  "Alas, 
Poor  — ,"  he  wrote,  "is  getting  too 

old,  and  we  have  to  change  her.  It  breaks 
my  heart;  I  fear  it  will  nearly  kill  her.  I 
am  writing  in  a  bit  for  her  in  the  last  act,  so 
as  to  keep  her  in  the  company.  ..."  It  was 
this  quality  in  him  that  made  him  considerate  — 
often  far  too  considerate  —  of  the  appeals  which 
deluged  his  mail  daily.  One  only  had  to  have  a 
sincere  ring  to  a  request  to  elicit  a  quick  response, 
and  to  obtain  an  appointment.  And  if  Mr.  Fitch 
thought  there  was  a  possibility  of  using  such 
a  person  to  their  mutual  advantage,  he  would 
motor  miles  in  order  to  keep  such  an  appoint 
ment.  There  was  no  saving  of  himself.  Had 
there  been,  his  vitality  might  have  withstood 
the  sudden  illness  at  Chalons-sur-Marne,  which 
resulted  in  his  death  on  September  4,  1909. 
To  use  a  phrase  formulated  by  Dr.  Percy  Grant 


INTRODUCTION 

on  the  occasion  of  the  dramatist's  funeral,  such 
is  the  Clyde  Fitch, we  recall,  when  we  " listen 
to  our  memories."  (His  own  plays  and  their  stage 
history  will  bear  witness  to  what  he  was  as  a 
craftsman,  as  a  force  in  American  drama\  We 
have  only  here  tried,  out  of  the  fulness  of  our 
recollection,  to  give  some  idea  of  the  warm-hearted 
presence  of  the  man. 

A  complete  list  of  Mr.  Fitch's  plays  will  be 
found  below.1     It  has  been  our  endeavor  here 

lThe  following  is  a  list  of  original  plays  by  Mr.  Fitch. 
Adaptations  and  pieces  written  in  collaboration  are  not 
included.  "Betty's  Finish"  (1890),  "Beau  Brummell " 
(1890),  "  Frederic  Lemaltre  "  (1890),  "  A  Modern  Match  " 
(1891),  "Pamela's  Prodigy"  (1891),  "The  Harvest" 
(1893.  This  play,  in  one  act,  was  presented  before  the 
Letters  and  Arts  Club,  of  Boston,  and  was  afterwards  used 
in  "The  Moth  and  the  Flame."),  "The  Social  Swim" 
(1893),  "His  Grace  de  Grammont "  (1894),  "April 
Weather  "  (1894),  "  Mistress  Betty  "  (1895.  Subsequently 
revived  as  "The  Toast  of  the  Town."),  "  Nathan  Hale" 
(1898),  "  The  Moth  and  the  Flame  "  (1898),  "  The  Cowboy 
and  the  Lady  "  (1899),  "  Barbara  Frietchie  "  (1899),  "  The 
Climbers"  (1901),  "  Captain  Jinks  of  the  Horse  Marines  " 
(1901),  "Lovers'  Lane"  (1901),  "The  Last  of  the  Dan 
dies"  (1901),  "The  Way  of  the  World"  (1901),  "The 
Girl  and  the  Judge"  (1901),  "The  Stubbornness  of 
Geraldine"  (1902),  "  The  Girl  with  the  Green  Eyes  "  (1902), 
"Her  Own  Way  "  (1903),  "  Major  Andre  "  (1903),  "  Glad 
of  It "  (1903),  "  The  Coronet  of  a  Duchess  "  (1904),  "  The 
Woman  in  the  Case  "  (1905),  "  Hr'r  Grcat  Match  "  (1905), 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

to  select  what  we  considered  to  be  a  representa 
tive  group  of  his  best  —  plays  most  of  which  have 
been  identified  with  long  runs,  many  revivals, 
and  varied  "stars."  In  the  latter  respect,  we 
can  instance  no  American  dramatist  whose  work 
is  so  closely  related  to  the  careers  of  American 
actors  and  actresses.  One  need  only  mention 
the  name  of  "Beau  BrummeU"  to  conjure  up 
the  figure  of  the  late  Richard  Mansfield  in  the 
minute  finesse  of  the  part.  "Barbara  Frietchie" 
could  not  now  be  revived  without  inevitably  chal 
lenging  comparison  with  the  ideal  set  by  Julia 
Marlowe.  "Captain  Jinks  of  the  Horse  Ma 
rines"  reflected  the  freshness  of  Ethel  Barrymore 
at  the  very  outset  of  her  career.  Theatregoers  of 
over  a  decade  in  range  will  treasure  the  excellence 
of  Mary  Mannering  in  "The  Stubbornness  of 
Geraldine,"  of  Mrs.  Clara  Bloodgood  in  "The 
Truth"  and  in  "The  Girl  with  the  Green  Eyes." 
Then  there  was  Maxine  Elliott,  whose  early 
career  was  largely  enriched  by  her  work  in  "Na 
than  Hale"  and  "Her  Own  Way; "  and  Amelia 
Bingham  in  "The  Climbers."  So  we  might 
go  through  a  longer  list  of  professional  associa 
tion.  It  may  be  said  in  truth  that  through  his 

"  The  Truth  "  (1906),  "  The  Straight  Road  "  (1906),  "  A 
Happy  Marriage  "  (1909),  "The  Bachelor"  (1909),  ''The 
City  "  (1909). 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION 

efforts,  many  a  player  was  brought  rapidly  to 
the  front.  In  the  making  of  "stars"  he  was 
noted,  though  sometimes  he  failed,  as  in  the 
instance  of  "  Major  Andre,"  in  wh'ch  he  was 
convinced  that  his  friend,  Arthur  Byron,  would 
jneet  with  deserved  recognition.  His  correspond 
ence  with  Mr.  Byron  contains  ample  evidence 
of  his  generosity  of  spirit;  reveals  likewise  his 
ever  alert  interest  in  a  production.  Once  he  had 
determined  to  wrrite  a  play  for  an  actor,  he  was 
ever  thoughtful  of  taking  the  actor  into  his  confi 
dence.  All  through  his  rehearsing  of  "Andre, "  he 
was  sending  Mr.  Byron  details  of  his  plans.  Now 
it  is,  "I  have  thought  of  some  good  business  for 
'Andre,'"  or  again,  "I  do  not  want  the  regula 
tion  colonial  designs."  On  his  trip  abroad,  dur 
ing  the  preparations  for  this  play,  he  began  to 
chafe  over  the  smallness  of  the  stage  in  the  Savoy 
Theatre,  where  "  Andre "  was  booked  to  open. 
Doubtless,  in  his  visit  to  European  theatres,  he 
had  seen  novelties  he  wanted  to  introduce  but 
could  not.  One  can  detect  a  note  of  desire  in 
his  declaration  that  he  had  seen  "some  very 
beautiful  staging  and  lighting.  I  wish  we  had 
more  room  in  the  Savoy  Theatre."  But  Mr. 
Fitch  was  never  one  to  aim  at  huge  effects ;  there 
was  more  delicacy  in  his  workmanship  —  a  deli 
cacy  well  brought  out  in  his  "bloodless"  war 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

dramas,  like  " Nathan  Hale"  and  "Barbara 
Frietchie."  He  recognized  that  the  American 
manager  was  fine  —  the  word  underlined  five 
times  —  as  a  stage  manager  of  big  effects,  "  and 
equally  bad  of  subtle  ones."  All  during  the  ar 
rangements  for  "Andre,"  Mr.  Fitch  was  largely 
concerned  about  the  future  of  his  friend.  It  was 
this  concern  that  prompted  him  to  write,  "You 
know  my  interest  in  you  is  not  bounded  by 
'Andre' ;  it  is  bounded  by  Byron  !  and  if  'Andre' 
fails,  we  must  have  something  else." 

His  correspondence  with  Mr.  Byron  contains 
reference  after  reference  for  him  to  read  up  on  the 
dress  of  Andre,  and  in  order  to  create  in  the  actor 
and  manager  a  distinct  feeling  for  the  time  and 
place,  Mr.  Fitch  motored  Mr.  McKee  and  Mr.  By 
ron  to  the  exact  spot  where  Andre  was  captured. 
"We  saw  the  spot  .  .  .  ,"  he  writes,  "the  prison 
•where  he  spent  his  last  night,  and  the  stone  that 
marks  the  place  where  he  was  hung.  The  latter 
on  a  hill  with  the  sun  red  behind  it,  and  the  moon 
already  risen  in  front.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight, 
and  so  full  of  romance  feeling.  I  am  pretty  well 
worn  out!  It  has  been  my  most  difficult  task, 
and  nothing  ready  yet !  It  all  lies  closer  to  my 
heart,  I  think,  than  any  other  play." 

Such  was  his  feeling  at  the  moment ;  but  when 
the  papers  rejected  it,  he  confessed  to  Byron  that 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTION 

"our  failure  to  draw  has  at  least  been  a  dignified 
one."  And  with  renewed  energy  he  turned  his 
attention  to  another  play. 

Such  was  the  attitude  of  Clyde  Fitch  toward 
all  with  whom  he  came  in  contact.  It  is  true 
that  many  of  his  plays  were  written  for  definite 
actors ;  long  before  he  put  pen  to  paper  he  was 
feeling  his  way  for  people  he  wanted  in  his  casts 
—  and  he  was  in  that  position,  as  a  successful 
playwright,  where  he  could  indicate  to  his  man 
agers  what  he  wanted.  They  usually  let  him 
have  charge  of  the  preparations.  At  the  time  of 
his  death  he  had  practically  arranged  for  the  whole 
personnel  of  "The  City;"  he  had  selected  his 
"star"  for  a  farce  which  was  well  under  way ;  and 
he  was  negotiating  with  a  young  woman  whose 
career  he  had  watched  with  interest,  and  whose 
talent  he  believed  in.  Add  to  this  the  fact  that, 
during  the  year  1909,  "The  Truth"  had  been, 
played  in  nearly  every  large  theatrical  centre  in 
Europe,  and  that  "The  Woman  in  the  Case" 
had  just  taken  London  by  storm,  and  we  are 
justified  in  claiming  that,  at  the  time  of  the 
death  of  Clyde  Fitch,  he  was  among  the  foremost 
of  American  dramatists,  and  certainly  the  best 
known  abroad. 

If  possible,  Europe  received  him  with  greater 
eclat  than  he  was  ever  given  in  his  own  country. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii 

Writing  from  Hamburg,  in  April,  1908,  he  claims 
that  neither  in  France  nor  Germany  can  he  find 
any  good  plays  to  adapt,  for  they  are  "  very 
talky-talky,  and  all  hard  brilliancy ;  no  heart  or 
big  nature  behind  them.  But  this  is  what  the 
Italian  press  call  my  Puritanism.  The  papers 
are  very  good  in  Italy  for  'The  Truth,'  La  Verita, 
but  they  complain  of  my  Puritanism.  They  say 
I  have  'exquisite  wit,'  'originality,'  and  'deep 
psychology,'  but  I  think  they  were  a  little  dis 
appointed  there  were  no  Indians  in  it." 

******* 

This  first  volume  of  the  Memorial  Edition 
contains  two  examples  of  Clyde  Fitch's  genuine 
love  for  special  atmosphere.  He  got  into  a 
period  with  precision ;  he  instinctively  felt  it ; 
and  he  worked  for  every  little  effect  which  would 
accentuate  it.  As  someone  said  of  "Captain 
Jinks,"  there  was  no  mistaking  it  for  the  period 
of  the  hoop  skirt ;  it  was  distinctly  of  1872,  when 
the  bustle  was  a  la  mode. 

The  career  of  Mr.  Fitch  really  began  with  the~2Sr-- 
success  of  "Beau  Brummell."  There  lies  before 
us  as  we  write  a  faded  scenario  as  it  was  first 
presented  to  Mr.  Mansfield ;  we  have  also  a  letter, 
dated  November  6,  1889,  while  he  was  living  at 
the  Sherwood  Studios,  which  sets  at  rest  all  dis 
putes  regarding  his  authentic  connection  with 


INTRODUCTION 


the  play.  It  is  a  youthful  letter,  splendidly  joy 
ful.  And  it  may  be  said  that  it  was  ever  his 
habit,  even  in  the  after  years  of  his  success,  to 
greet  each  new  commission  with  the  same  ful 
ness  of  expectation.  uMy  dear  -  — ,"  he  writes, 
"  I  have  been  kept  from  answering  your  kind  letter 
because  I  have  not  been  able  to  know  if  I  am  to 
be  in  town  Saturday  or  not.  Now,  however,  I 
think  it  most  likely  that  I  shall  be,  and  in  that 
case  will  accept  your  invitation  with  eagerness,  if 
you  wish  to  have  me  wdth  this  mite  of  uncer 
tainty.  It  is  all  apropos  of  something  wonder 
ful  for  me,  which  is  also  a  very  great  secret.  .  .  . 
Negotiations  are  on  the  tapis  for  a  play  to  be 
written  for  RICHARD  MANSFIELD  by  WM. 
CLYDE  FITCH,  and  I  am  awaiting  a  dispatch 
now  to  go  to  Philadelphia  to  clinch  things  with 
Mansfield,  who  is  playing  there  this  week.  It 
all  may  elude  my  grasp,  as  so  many  things  have 
done,  but  if  it  doesn't,  isn't  it,  oh,  isn't  it  an 
opportunity !  The  subject  of  the  play  is  to  be 
'Beau  Brummeir.  ...  I  am  not  settled  yet, 
and  I  have  had  two  teeth  pulled ! !  but  those  that 
are  left  and  I  are,  Faithfully  yours,  W.  C.  F." 
It  seems,  however;  that  the  engagement  of  Mr. 
Fitch  for  supper  was  not  kept,  but  instead  came 
the  welcome  news  that  IT,  meaning  the  scenario, 
had  been  accepted.  Then,  on  December  zoth, 


INTRODUCTION  xxxix 

word  was  sent  that  he  and  Mansfield  were 
working  daily,  talking  and  planning,  and  arrang 
ing  for  early  rehearsals. 

It  was  Mr.  E.  A.  Dithmar,  of  the  New  York 
Times,  who  was  instrumental  in  bringing  Mansfield 
and  Clyde  Fitch  together,  for  he  knew  that  here 
was  a  subject  well  suited  to  the  artistic  taste  of 
his  young  friend.  Indeed,  there  was  a  pictur- 
esqueness  about  the  meteoric  rise  and  fall  of  the 
Beau  which  always  had  appealed  to  Mr.  Fitch  — 
the  detailed  elegance  which  was  as  much  a  joy 
for  him  to  externalize  as  it  was  for  Mr.  Mansfield 
to  depict.  Despite  those  critics  who  dismissed 
the  play  with  the  casual  comment  that  there  was 
nothing  in  Brummell's  life  of  a  dramatic  character, 
Mr.  Fitch  and '  Mr.  Mansfield  found  copious 
material  for  graphic  portraiture.  While  the 
.play  was  always  close  to  his  heart,  Mr.  Fitch 
nevertheless  recognized  in  it  during  after  years 
a  great  amount  of  plot  machinery  which  his 
maturer  technique  would  never  have  been  satis 
fied  to  let  remain.  But  "Beau  Brummell"  is 
nevertheless  a  distinct  piece  of  genre  work.  He 
was  to  return  to  the  Beau  theme  once  more  in 
"The  Last  of  the  Dandies,"  but  we  believe  it 
true  that  had  he  approached  the  subject  with 
less  seriousness  —  for  here  he  became  engrossed 
in  the  father-love  of  his  Dandy  —  had  he  used 


xl  INTRODUCTION 

s 

the  same  surface  feeling  he  put  into  "  Beau  Brum- 
mell,"  he  would  have  duplicated  his  success. 

" Lovers'  Lane"  was  written  several  years 
before  it  was  produced.  It  was  at  first  called 
"The  Parson,"  and  [Sir]  George  Alexander,  the 
English  actor,  accepted  it  for  his  theatre.  But 
he  failed  to  make  use  of  it  within  the  stipulated 
time.  Its  theme  is  of  the  simplest  order,  and 
was  called  forth  by  the  challenge  that  Mr.  Fitch 
would  be  unable  to  create  characters  other  than 
those  of  a  period  or  of  the  city.  But  though 
Clyde  Fitch  was  identified  in  his  plays  with  a 
certain  social  level,  " Lovers'  Lane"  is  a  pleasant 
departure,  showing  his  sympathy  with  the  coun 
try  type.  The  character  of  the  Minister,  and 
the  little  incident  of  his  constant  interruptions, 
appealed  strongly  to  him. 

The  staging  of  " Nathan  Hale"  was  a  matter 
that  won  his  undivided  attention.  He  always 
placed  great  importance  on  lights,  and  he  felt 
how  much  that  early  cool  daybreak  light,  turning 
into  sunrise,  with  the  first  twitter  of  birds  in  the 
trees,  meant  in  the  creation  of  that  ineffable 
sadness  of  the  final  scene,  with  Nathan  Hale  under 
the  blue  sky  and  beneath  the  apple  blossoms, 
brought  forth  to  die.  In  the  same  spirit  he 
worked  in  "  Barbara  Frietchie"  for  the  after- 
supper  light  of  a  Southern  summer  evening. 


INTRODUCTION  xli 

It  often  happened  that  Mr.  Fitch  was  his  own 
competitor  in  a  theatrical  season.  For  example, 
when  " Lovers'  Lane"  was  given  its  premiers, 
there  were  running  at  the  time  in  New  York, 
"  Cap  tain  Jinks  of  the  Horse  Marines,"  "Barbara 
Frietchie,"  and  "The  Climbers."  "The  Cowboy 
and  the  Lady"  was  first  produced  in  Philadelphia, 
with  great  success,  "and  is  doing  even  a  bigger 
business  than  '  Hale,'  "  wrote  Mr.  Fitch.  "I  am 
sorry  to  have  it  beat '  Hale,'  but  if  any  play  is  go 
ing  to  beat  it,  I'd  rather  it  was  one  of  mine,  eh  ?  " 

There  was  something  very  personal  about 
the  stage  management  of  Clyde  Fitch,  and  the 
time  will  come  when  a  mass  of  data  —  comments 
of  his  own,  and  those  of  his  associates  —  will  be 
brought  together  in  some  fuller  reflection  than 
has  here  been  attempted.  Such  a  compilation 
will  illustrate  his  unswerving  devotion  to  his 
craft,  and  his  serious  realization  of  his  duty  to 
the  public.  The  majority  of  his  plays  would 
stand  revival  now,  because  of  their  essential  human 
and  because  the  characters  are  eternally 
Very  slight  alteration  had  to  be  made 
in  "The  Truth"  when  it  was  revived  in  the 
Spring  of  1914.  (The  very  permanence  of  litera 
ture  is  due,  not  to  material  truthfulness,  but 
to  the  realization  of  constant  human  factors. 
This  realization  was  caught  by  Mr.  Fitch  with 


xlii  INTRODUCTION 

originality,  deftness,  and  a  certain  swift  wit. 
There  was  a  vein  in  him  native  of  New  York 
city,  but  it  was  more  truly  native  of  Clyde  Fitch, 
the  man. 

It  is  our  firm  belief  that,  through  the  plays 
contained  in  this  Memorial  Edition,  readers 
will  discover  much  that  "maketh  indeed  a  faire 
day  in  the  Affections."  Even  if  there  was  not 
the  testimony  of  his  friends,  one  would  be  able 
to  detect  in  his  written  word  the  manner  of  man 
we  have  here  so  sketchily  portrayed.  For,  as 
Matthew  Arnold  says,  in  his  poem  on  "The 
Future,"  "  As  what  he  sees  is,  so  have  his  thoughts 

been." 

MONTROSE  J.  MOSES, 
VIRGINIA  GERSON. 

NEW  YORK, 
July,  1915. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION v 

BEAU  BRUMMELL i 

LOVERS'  LANE 209 

NATHAN  HALE 4°7 


BEAU    BRUMMELL 

A   PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 
Written  for  RICHARD    MANSFIELD 


COPYRIGHT,  1908, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 

ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


This  play  is  fully  protected  by  the  copyright  law,  all  requirements  of 
which  have  been  complied  with.  In  its  present  printed  form  it  is  dedi 
cated  to  the  reading  public  only,  and  no  performance  of  it  may  be  given 
without  the  written  permission  of  Mrs.  Richard  Mansfield,  owner  of  the 
acting  rights,  who  may  be  addressed  in  care  of  the  publishers. 

The  subjoined  is  an  extract  from  the  law  relating  to  copyright. 

SEC.  4966.  Any  person  publicly  performing  or  representing  any  dra 
matic  or  musical  composition  for  which  a  copyright  has  been  obtained, 
without  the  consent  of  the  proprietor  of  said  dramatic  or  musical 
composition,  or  his  heirs  or  assigns,  shall  be  liable  for  damages  therefor, 
such  damages  in  all  cases  to  be  assessed  at  such  sum  not  less  than 
$100.00  for  the  first  and  $50.00  for  every  subsequent  performance,  as  to 
the  court  shall  appear  to  be  just. 

If  the  unlawful  performance  and  representation  be  willful  and  for 
profit,  such  person  or  persons  shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor  and  upon 
conviction  be  imprisoned  for  a  period  not  exceeding  one  year. 


NOTE 


CT*HE  idea  of  this  Play  was  Richard  Mansfield's, 
and  the  author  gratefully  acknowledges  his  debt 
to  the  actor  for  innumerable  suggestions. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL 


THE   FIRST  ACT.     FIRST  SCENE.       The  morning  toilet. 
Mr.  Brummell  despatches  a  proposal  of  marriage, 
assists  his  nephew,  arid  sends  for  a  new  tailor. 
SECOND    SCENE.        The   Beau   receives   a    number   of 
friends,  and  makes  an  unfortunate  blunder. 

THE  SECOND  ACT.  A  small  and  early  party  at  Carl- 
Ion  House.  Mr.  Brummell  proposes  to  an  heiress, 
and  reprimands  a  Prince. 

THE  THIRD  ACT.  The  Mall,  and  how  it  came  about 
that  Mr.  Brummell  had  a  previous  engagement 
with  His  Majesty. 

THE  FOURTH  ACT.  FIRST  SCENE.  Mr.  BrummeWs 
lodgings  in  Calais. 

(Six  months  later.) 

SECOND    SCENE.      The  attic  at   Caen.     A   very  poor 
dinner  with  an  excellent  dessert. 


THE  PERSONS  IN   THE  PLAY 


THE  PRINCE  OF  WALES.     Heir  apparent  to  the  throne  of 

England. 

BEAU  BRUMMELL.     Prince  of  dandies. 
RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN.     Playwright. 
REGINALD  COURTENAY.     Nephew  to  the  Beau. 
MORTIMER.      Valet  and  confidential  servant  to  the  Beau. 
MR.    OLIVER   VINCENT.     A  self-made  merchant,  father  of 

Mariana. 

LORD  MANLY.     A  fop. 
MR.  ABRAHAMS.     A  money-lender. 
BAILIFFS. 

PRINCE'S  FOOTMAN. 
SIMPSON.     Footman  to  Beau. 
THE   DUCHESS   OF   LEAMINGTON.      Middle-aged,  but  very 

anxious  to  appear  yoting. 
MARIANA  VINCENT.      Young  and  beautiful,  beloved  by  Beau 

and  Reginald. 
MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.     Passee  but  still  beautiful — very  anxious 

to  captivate  the  Prince1,  but  unwilling  to  resign  the  Beau. 
KATHLEEN.     Irish  maid  of  Mariana. 
LADY  FARTHINGALE.     Pretty — insipid. 
A  FRENCH  LODGING-HOUSE  KEEPER. 
A  NURSE. 


This  play  was  first  produced  at  the  Madison 
Square  Theatre  by  Richard  Mansfield,  on  May  1  7, 
1890.  The  25oth  representation  took  place  at  the 
Garden  Theatre,  on  January  30,  1891.  The  cast 
on  this  occasion  was 

Beau  Brummell     .......    Mr.  Richard  Mansfield 

The  Prince  of  Wales      ......    Mr.  D.  H.  Harkins 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan       ....    Mr.  A.  G.  Andrews 

Lord  Manly      .........  Mr.  H.  G.  Lonsdale 

Reginald  Courtenay  ;     .....   Mr.  Vincent  Sternroyd 

Mortimer      ..........    Mr.  W.  J.  Ferguson 

Mr.  Abrahams  .........  Mr.  Harry  Gwynette 

Simpson  ..............    Mr.  Smiles 


Bailiffs      .  I  Mr'  Gwynette  and 

I  Mr.  Ivan  Peronette 
Prince's  Footman  ........      Mr.  F.  F.  Graham 

Mr.  Oliver  Vincent     ......     Mr.  W.  H.  Crompton 

Mariana  Vincent    .......  Miss  Beatrice  Cameron 

Kathleen  ...........  Miss  Ethel  Sprague 

The  Duchess  of  Leamington    ....    Mrs.  Julia  Brutone 

Lady  Farthingale   .......       Miss  Helen  Glidden 

French  Lodging-house  Keeper     .     .     .    Miss  Hazel  Selden 
Nurse    ..........     Miss  Genevra  Campbell 

Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  .........  Miss  Adela  Measor 


THE   FIRST  ACT 

SCENE  ONE 

The  scene  represents  the  BEAU'S  dressing-room. 
A  cheerful  room,  furnished  more  like  a  lady's 
boudoir  than  a  man's  dressing-room.  A 
handsome  dressing-table,  covered  with  a  bewilder 
ing  array  of  silver-topped  bottles,  stands  at  the 
Left.  A  large  cheval-glass  stands  in  front  of  a 
bay  window  opening  out  on  a  balcony.  The 
curtains  are  open.  The  door  at  the  back  leads 
into  the  BEAU'S  bedroom.  A  table  stands  at 
one  side,  with  books  and  papers  in  precise 
order.  A  door  at  the  left-hand  side  leads  into 
an  ante-room  where  visitors  are  detained  until 
the  great  man  wishes  to  see  them. 
MORTIMER,  the  BEAU'S  valet  and  really  con- 


;  £2:  {  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

fidential    servant,  is   discovered   sitting  on  sofa, 
head   back,  face  covered  with  handkerchief;    he 
has  evidently  been  asleep.     It  is  about  noon. 
[MORTIMER   removes   handkerchief,    yawns   and 

speaks. 

MORTIMER.  Up  till  four  this  morning  !  It  was 
pretty  lively  at  the  club  last  night,  but  I  have  lost 
all  my  beauty  sleep  to  pay  for  it.  I  don't  know 
how  much  longer  we  will  be  able  to  continue  this 
style  of  living.  Our  nerves  will  give  out  if  our 
credit  doesn't.  Mr.  Brummell  only  turned  over 
twice  and  then  took  to  his  chocolate.  That 
means  he  will  only  be  half  an  hour  at  his  bath  - 
time  for  a  nap.  [Replaces  handkerchief. 

[Enter   SIMPSON  through  door  from   ante-room. 
SIMPSON  is  the  regulation  footman,  with  pow 
dered  hair  and  livery. 
SIMPSON.    [At  Left.]     Mr.    Mortimer,  sir,  Mr. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  13 

Abrahams    has    just    called.     He    particularly 
wishes  to  see  you,  sir. 

[Going  toward  MORTIMER. 

MORTIMER.  [Starting  and  removing  handker 
chief.]  Hang  Abrahams,  what's  he  after?  Dear 
me !  It  can't  be  that  he  thinks  of  collecting 
those  f.  O.  U.'s  of  mine.  [Rising. 

SIMPSON.  [Who  has  a  great  respect  for  MOR 
TIMER.  Very  deferentially.]  Been  losing  again, 
sir? 

MORTIMER.  [Loftily.]  Yes,  Simpson,  pretty 
high  stakes  last  night,  and  one  must  play,  you 
know. 

SIMPSON.  Mr.  Mortimer,  sir,  you  couldn't 
propose  me  in  your  club,  could  you,  sir? 

MORTIMER.  [Haughtily  and  then  more  kindly, 
as  he  sees  SIMPSON'S  downcast  face.]  No,  Simpson, 
not  in  your  present  position,  you  know ;  but  if 


14  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

you  should  ever  raise  yourself,  depend  upon  me 

to  use  all  my  influence  for  you. 

SIMPSON.    [Gratefully.]     Oh,  thank  you,  sir,  I'm 
sure,  [going]  but  what  about  Mr.  Abrahams,  sir? 
MORTIMER.  [Seating  himself]     Oh,  damn  Abra 
hams  ! 

[Enter  ABRAHAMS  from  ante-room,  hat  and  cane 
in  hand.  ABRAHAMS  is  the  typical  Jew  money 
lender  of  the  period ,  exaggerated  in  dress  and 
manner. 

ABRAHAMS.  [Advancing  just  as  SIMPSON 
crosses  back  of  table  and  exits,  giving  him  a 
look  of  haughty  disdain.]  No  you  don't,  Mr. 
Mortimer;  no,  you  don't,  not  yet.  Where's 
your  master  ? 

MORTIMER.  Excuse  me,  where's  my  gentleman, 
you  mean,  Mr.  Abrahams.  [Rising.]  I  am  a 
gentleman's  gentleman ;  I  have  no  master. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  15 

ABRAHAMS.  [.4*  Left  Centie.]  Oh,  you  haven't 
a  master,  haven't  you?  Well,  now,  suppose  I 
was  to  come  down  on  you  with  some  of  your  little 
I.  O.  U.'s,  I  wonder  then  if  you'd  have  a  master. 
Where's  Mr.  Brummell? 

MORTIMER.  Mr.  Brummell  has  not  yet  ap 
peared. 

ABRAHAMS.  [Sitting  down  as  if  to  wait.] 
Inform  him  that  Mr.  Abrahams  wishes  to  see  him. 

MORTIMER.  [Shocked.]  I  repeat,  sir,  he  is  not 
up. 

ABRAHAMS.  Well,  then,  my  good  fellow,  it's 
time  he  were  up.  Tell  him  I  said  so. 

MORTIMER.  It  is  as  much  as  my  position  is 
worth,  sir,  to  go  to  him  at  this  hour.  You  must 
call  again,  Mr.  Abrahams. 

ABRAHAMS.  [Rising.]  Call  again!  Call 
again  !  This  is  the  seventh  time  I've  called  again. 


16  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MORTIMER.  [Trying  now  to  placate  him.]  Yes 
—  eh  —  if  you  please,  Mr.  Abrahams. 

ABRAHAMS.  No,  sir ;  I  must  see  him  now.  I'm 
in  need  of  money  myself,  and  I  must  get  it  from 
Mr.  Brummell.  My  creditors  are  pressing  me, 
and  they  force  me  to  do  the  same.  [Loudly.] 
I  regret  the  necessity,  but  I  am  determined  upon 
seeing  him. 

MORTIMER.  [Who  is  so  shocked  he  can  hardly 
speak.]  Not  so  loud,  Mr.  Abrahams,  not  so  loud. 
If  Mr.  Brummell  were  to  hear  you,  he'd  be  dis 
tressed.  Besides,  he  never  tolerates  any  one 
who  raises  his  voice  unnecessarily.  If  he  should 
hear  you,  you  might  never  be  paid. 

ABRAHAMS.    [Aghast    at    the    thought.]     What ! 

MORTIMER.    [Hands  raised  in  horror.]     Shi    Sh! 

ABRAHAMS.   What ! 

[Whispering  in  MORTIMER'S  ear. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  17 

MORTIMER.    [Looking  at  ABRAHAMS  out  of  the 

corner  of  his  eye.]     Upon  my  honor,  Mr.  Brum- 

mell  was  saying  only  yesterday  he  thought  he 

would  pay  Mr.  Abrahams. 

ABRAHAMS.  [A  little  more  calmly.}  Then  why 
hasn't  he  done  so  ? 

MORTIMER.  Mr.  Brummell  only  said  it  yester 
day,  and  Mr.  Brummell  never  does  anything  in  a 
hurry. 

ABRAHAMS.  Is  four  years  a  hurry?  Well, 
this  is  the  last  time  that  I  will  be  put  off.  Do  you 
follow  me  —  the  last  time  !  And  now,  when  am 
I  to  have  your  little  sums  ? 

MORTIMER.  [Taking  out  handkerchief  and  wip 
ing  eyes.}  Mine !  Oh,  I  have  a  wealthy  aunt, 
who  is  now  dying  in  Clapham,  Mr.  Abrahams, 
and  I  am  her  sole  heir.  I  fear  I  must  beg  you  to 
wait  until  after  her  funeral. 


jg  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

ABRAHAMS.    [At  Left  Centre.     Really    puzzled.} 
It  is  very  strange,  a  very  large  number  of  my 
clients  have  wealthy  aunts  who  are  dying,  but 
they  don't  die.     They  all  appear  to  be  affected 
with  a  most  lingering  sickness.     However,  Mr. 
Brummell  has  no  such  relative,  and  I  believe,  on 
consideration,  that  I  will  wait  for  him  this  morn 
ing.  [Sits  in  chair  by  table. 
MORTIMER.    [Who  is  now  determined  to  get  rid 
oj  him,  crossing  to  ABRAHAMS.]     No,  really,  Mr. 
Abrahams,  you  must  go.     Mr.  Brummell  would 
not  see  you  until  his  toilet  is  completed;    and, 
indeed,  if  he  would,  he  could  transact  no  business 
in  deshabille. 

ABRAHAMS.  In  what  ?  [Jumps  up.}  Oh,  very 
well,  very  well ;  but  advise  him  this  is  the  last 
time  I  will  be  dismissed  without  seeing  him.  The 
next  time  I  call,  I  will  see  him  whether  he  is  in 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  19 

desh  —  desh  —  or    nothing.     I    will    have    my 
money.     I  will  have  my  money. 

[All  the  while  he  is  saying  this,  MORTIMER  is 
pushing  him  gently  off  through  the  ante-room. 
MORTIMER  ushers  ABRAHAMS  off  at  the  Left, 
then  crosses  to  the  Right  Centre,  and  turns 
away  with  a  sigh  of  relief  as  SIMPSON  enters 
very  hurriedly. 

SIMPSON.  Mr.  Mortimer,  sir,  there  are  a  num 
ber  of  people  waiting  with  their  accounts  to  see 
Mr.  Brummell.  What  shall  I  say,  sir? 

MORTIMER.    [Resignedly.]     Get  a  list  of  their 
names,  Simpson,  and  tell  them  I'll  call  around 
and  see  them  to-day. 
SIMPSON.   Very  well,  sir. 
[Exit  SIMPSON  through  ante-room.     A  murmur  of 

voices  is  heard  there. 
MORTIMER.    Affairs  are  very  shaky.     It  was 


20  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

only  three  days  since  Abrahams  called.     Accord 
ing  to  this  he  will  return  again  to-morrow. 

[Sits  in  chair  in  front  of  dressing-case,  makes 
himself  comfortable,  and  is  about  to  fall  asleep 
when  KATHLEEN  appears  at  door  and  peeps  in. 

KATHLEEN.  [In  door  at  Left.  She  is  MARI 
ANA'S  Irish  maid,  very  pretty  and  piquant.] 
Pst !  Pst ! 

[MORTIMER  starts  and  listens,  then  composes 
himself  for  another  nap. 

KATHLEEN.   Pst!    Pst! 

MORTIMER.  [Still  seated.}  I  did  drink  pretty 
heavily  last  night,  but  I  hardly  thought  it  af 
fected  me. 

KATHLEEN.   Hello! 

MORTIMER.    [Rising.]     Who  is  it?     What  is  it? 

KATHLEEN.  [Still  in  door.  With  pretty  im 
patience.]  Is  it  all  right,  —  can  I  come  in? 


BEAU   BRUMMELL  21 

MORTIMER.  [Laughingly.]  Look  here,  Kath 
leen,  are  you  going  to  indulge  in  that  sort  of  thing 
when  we  are  married  ? 

KATHLEEN.    Can  I  come  in? 

[Comes  in  a  few  steps. 

MORTIMER.  [Crossing  to  Centre.]  Yes,  it's  all 
right  now.  Mr.  Brummell  is  finishing  the  first 
part  of  his  toilet;  he  won't  be  out  for  some  time 
yet.  Well,  what  do  you  want,  you  little  minx? 

[Chucks  her  under  chin. 

KATHLEEN.  [Tossing  her  head]  Minx,  indeed  ! 
[Crossing  to  Right]  I  dropped  in  to  find  out  what's 
your  intentions.  Mr.  Sheridan's  gentleman  has 
become  very  pressing  in  his,  and  won't  be  held 
off  much  longer.  Now,  is  it  marriage  with  you, 
Mr.  Mortimer,  or  is  it  a  breaking  off,  Mr.  Mor 
timer?  Am  I  to  be  worn  in  your  coat  like  a 
flower  and  thrown  aside  when  I'm  withered,  or 

^WcJluXv^     \     U 


22  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

am  I  to  be  pressed  in  the  album  of  your  affections, 
Mr.  Mortimer?  I  own  there  is  an  air  about 
Mr.  Brummell,  and  I  should  not  be  averse  to  a 
connection  with  the  family.  [Quite  seriously. 

MORTIMER.  [Just  as  seriously.]  And  I  mean 
you  shall  have  it,  Kathleen,  for  you  would  be 
come  our  position.  But  the  fact  is,  I  can't 
afford  to  marry  while  Mr.  Brummell's  money 
matters  are  so  bad.  I  tell  you  his  social  position 
is  like  a  halo,  — it  is  glory  all  round  him,  but 
there's  a  hollow  in  the  middle. 

KATHLEEN.  [With  a  sudden  thought.]  Mr. 
Mortimer!  We  must  marry  Mr.  Brummell! 
First,  we  must  procure  a  list  of  the  heiresses. 

MORTIMER.  [Slyly.]  I  understand  there  is  a 
heap  of  money  in  your  family. 

KATHLEEN.  [Dubiously.]  But  there's  one  ob 
stacle  —  Miss  Mariana's  affections  are  already 
engaged. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  23 

MORTIMER.  Indeed,  to  whom? 
KATHLEEN.  That's  what  I  can't  find  out. 
The  divvle  never  signs  any  of  his  letters.  I  can 
promise  you  one  thing,  he  isn't  very  high,  and 
Miss  Mariana's  father  has  forbid  him  the  house, 
and  swears  she  shan't  have  him.  Mr.  Vincent, 
oh,  ho !  he's  all  for  position  and  fashion. 

MORTIMER.  [Puts  arm  around  her  waist  and 
they  walk  up  and  down,}  Then  Mr.  Vincent  would 
be  glad  to  marry  her  to  Mr.  Brummell.  We'll 
enlist  him  on  our  side.  Now  there  are  two  diffi 
culties  with  Mr.  Brummell  —  first,  he  is,  just  at 
present,  very  friendly  with  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn. 
Still,  I  think  I  can  get  him  out  of  that  predica 
ment,  and  then  you  see  Mr.  Brummell  is  so 
demmed  particular,  —  the  young  lady  must  be 
correct  to  a  hair  in  every  respect  — 
KATHLEEN.  [Affectedly.]  Lord,  Mr.  Morty, 


24  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

you  needn't  worry  yourself  about  that;  ar'n't 
I  in  her  service?  And  what's  the  matter  with 
me?  She's  a  very  much  a  la  mud  and  [crosses  to 
mirror 'at  Right]  correct  in  every  particular.  Mr. 
Mortimer,  do  you  think  you  are  as  becoming  to 
me  as  Mr.  Sheridan's  gentleman  ? 

[Beckoning  to  him,  he  comes  up  and  looks  over  her 

shoulder  in  the  glass. 

MORTIMER.  [Putting  his  arm  around  her  and 
leading  her  away  from  mirror.}  Look  here, 
Kathleen,  no  tricks;  and  what  are  you  doing 
out  at  this  time  of  day  ? 

KATHLEEN.  [Walking  to  and  fro  with  MORTI 
MER.]  Why,  Miss  Mariana  sent  me  over  an 
hour  back  with  this  letter  [holding  up  letter]  for 
her  young  gentleman.  They  correspond  through 
ins;  faith,  I'm  turned  into  a  regular  post-bag. 
But  I'm  afraid  I've  missed  him  this  time. 


BEAU   BRUMMELL  25 

MORTIMER.    [Laughingly.]     You   will   have   to 

miss  him  quite  regularly  when  we  begin  to  break 

it  off  between  your  young  mistress  and  her  lover, 

and  supplant  him  with  my  gentleman. 

BKAU.  [Voice  in  distance  from  bedroom.} 
Mortimer !  Mortimer ! 

MORTIMER.  Yes,  sir  !  [Alarmed.]  That's  Mr. 
Brummell ! 

KATHLEEN.  [Starts  of  Left.]  Lord !  I'm  off. 
[Pointing  to  dressing-table.]  Oh,  Morty  !  Is  that 
where  he  sits  and  does  it?  [MORTIMER  nods.] 
Couldn't  I  see  him? 

MORTIMER.  [With  horror.]  What!  Before 
he's  finished?  Gracious  Heavens  !  No  ! 

KATHLEEN.  [Crossing  to  door  of  ante-room.] 
Well,  I  am  going.  I'm  loath  to  leave  ye; 
goody-by  —  be  faithful 

[Throws  kiss. 


26  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

[Exit  KATHLEEN.     Enter  BEAU  from  door  into 
bedroom.     He  enters  slowly  as  though  it  were 
too   much  trouble  to  come  in.     He  is  dressed 
in  a  yellow  brocaded  dressing-gown,  tied  with 
a  heavy  yellow  cord.     It  is  long,  so  that  only 
his  patent  leather  pumps  with  silver  buckles 
show,  with  just  a  glimpse  of  brown  and  yellow 
striped  socks.     He  crosses  at  once  to  the  dress 
ing-table    without    paying    any    attention    to 
MORTIMER,  who  bows  deferentially  and  says: 
MORTIMER.    Good  morning,  sir. 
BEAU.   Oh,  go  to  the  devil. 
MORTIMER.    [To  himself.}     Mr.  Brummell  is  in 
a  bad  temper  this  morning. 

BEAU.    [Seating  himself  at  dressing-table.}     Mor 
timer,  is  the  sun  shining  ? 

MORTIMER.    [Crossing  to  window  —  Right.}    Oh, 
finely,  sir. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  27 

[SIMPSON  enters,  bringing  soda-water  bottle  and 

glass  on  a  tray. 

BEAU.  [Simply  looks  at  it  and  motions  it  away; 
exit  SIMPSON.]  Any  gossip,  Mortimer? 

[Has  taken  up  hand-glass,  and  then  gently  smooths 

his  eyebrows. 

MORTIMER.  None  of  any  account,  sir.  The 
Dowager  Lady  Slopington  ran  off  yesterday  with 
young  Philip  Pettibone. 

BEAU.    [Now    manicuring    his     nails.]     If    it 

happened  yesterday,  it  must  be  forgotten  to-day. 

MORTIMER.   And    Captain    Badminton     shot 

himself  in  the  Park  last  night,  sir,  after  losing 

ten  thousand  pounds  at  hazard. 

BEAU.  [Now  takes  tweezers  and  pulls  out  one  or 
two  hairs  from  his  face.}  Very  stupid  of  him  ;  he 
should  have  shot  himself  first  —  is  he  dead, 
Mortimer  ? 


28  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MORTIMER.   No,  sir. 

BEAU.  He  always  was  a  bad  shot.  You'll 
find  some  of  his  I.  O.  U.'s  among  my  papers; 
return  them  to  him  cancelled,  with  my  com 
pliments.  He  can  use  them  for  plasters.  And 
who  has  called? 

MORTIMER.  [Crosses  to  small  table  and  looks  over 
cards.}  Oh,  nobody,  sir.  To  be  sure  there  has 
been  the  usual  crowd  of  people.  The  Honorable 
Mrs.  Donner  came  for  your  subscription  to  the 
town  charities,  and  I  gave  her  all  you  could  spare, 
sir.  Mr.  Cecil  Serious,  the  poet,  called  for  per 
mission  to  inscribe  your  name  under  the  dedica 
tion  of  his  new  volume  of  verses.  Lord  Cowden 
came  to  know  if  your  influence  might  still  be 
used  in  the  support  of  his  party  in  the  coming 
elections. 

BEAU.    [Still  occupied  with  his  toilet.}     Yes,  he 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  29 

can  use  my  influence.     Well,  you  satisfied  them 
all,  I  presume. 

MORTIMER.  [At  Left.}  I  took  that  liberty,  sir. 
Then  there  was  a  quantity  of  trades-people  with 
their  bills  and  accounts.  I  said  you  had  been 
out  all  night  with  the  Prince  and  really  were 
not  able  to  see  them. 

BEAU.  Pray,  Mortimer,  be  a  little  careful  of 
my  reputation  in  your  lies.  You  know  common 
people  are  apt  to  look  upon  dissipation  very 
differently  from  persons  of  fashion.  You  may 
say  what  you  like  about  the  Prince,  but  handle 
me  a  little  delicately. 

MORTIMER.  [Bows,  then  speaks  after  short  pause] 
Sprague,  the  tailor,  called  again,  sir,  with  his 
account. 

BEAU.  [Much  astonished]  Again  !  What  inso 
lence  !  Upon  what  previous  occasion  had  he  the 
presumption  to  call  ? 


30  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MORTIMER.   A  year  ago  last  month,  sir. 

BEAU.  [With  real  astonishment.}  What  damned 
impudence !  Mortimer,  you  may  let  it  be 
known  at  your  club  that  he  comes  to  me  no 
longer.  Send  for  that  new  tailor  —  what's  his 
name  —  to  wait  upon  me  this  afternoon.  Bring 
this  morning's  letters. 

[MORTIMER  brings  down  table  with  a  number  of 
little  notes  to  BEAU,  who  is  still  seated  at 
dressing-table. 

MORTIMER.  [Holding  up  a  bundle  of  bills.] 
These  are  bills,  sir.  All  of  them  fresh  this 
morning,  and  some  of  them  more  urgent  than 
usual. 

BEAU.  [Not  taking  the  trouble  to  look  at  them.] 
Hide  them  away  somewhere,  where  I  can't  see 
them,  and  I  shall  feel  as  if  they  had  been  paid. 

MORTIMER.    [Pushing  forward  a  bundle  of  notes.] 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  31 

Your  private  correspondence,  this  little  collection, 
sir. 

BEAU.  [Still  seated,  takes  up  notes,  one  at  a  time, 
arid  smells  them.}  Patchouli !  —  phew  !  —  Frangi- 
pane  !  -  -  I  believe  that  smells  like  peppermint. 
I  don't  know  what  that  is,  but  it's  very  unpleasant. 
Violet !  — musk  !  Take  them  all  away  —  you 
may  read  them  yourself. 

MORTIMER.  [Holding  up  a  yellow  lock  of  hair 
which  he  has  taken  from  an  envelope.}  This 
letter  has  this  little  enclosure,  sir. 

BEAU.    [In  interested  tone.}     Money? 

MORTIMER.  Not  exactly,  sir,  although  a  similar 
color. 

BEAU.  [Disappointedly  —  languidly.}  Whose 
is  it? 

MORTIMER.  Lady  Constance  Conway's,  and 
she  savs  — 


32  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

BEAU.  {Interrupts  him.]  Never  mind  what 
she  says.  I  believe  I  did  honor  her  with  the 
request.  Write  and  thank  her,  and  quote  some 
poetry.  Say  hers  is  the  most  precious  lock  I 
possess.  Rather  tender  little  woman,  Lady 
Constance.  [Sentimentally. 

MORTIMER.    [Pointedly.]     Is  she  rich,   sir? 
BEAU.    [Sighing.]     No,  she's  not. 
MORTIMER.    [Opening   another   note.]     Oh !    A 
note  from  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn.     She  wants  to  know 
where  you've  been  these  two  days.     She  says  you 
are  her  lover's  knot ;    she's  coming  to  see  you  at 
three  this  afternoon ;  bids  you  be  ready  to  receive 
her.     She  has,  besides,  down  below  in  a  postscript, 
a  myriad  of  sentiments  which  she  says  belong  to 
you,  and  she  is  herself,  unalterably  yours,  Horatia. 
BEAU.   The  one  woman  in  London  with  whom 
it's  possible  to  have  a  Platonic  friendship.     One 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  33 

must  have  something  nowadays,  and  these  other 
liaisons  are  so  excessively  vulgar. 

MORTIMER.  [Very  loud,  as  he  opens  letter.}  Mr. 
Brummell,  sir. 

BEAU.  [Shocked.]  Mortimer,  how  often  have 
I  told  you  never  to  startle  me? 

MORTIMER.  [Bows  an  apology.}  Mr.  Brummell, 
sir,  here's  the  memorandum  of  an  I.  O.  U.  for  one 
thousand  pounds,  given  by  you  to  Lord  Gainsby 
at  White's  three  nights  ago,  for  sums  lost  at 
hazard. 

BEAU.  [A  little  disturbed.}  The  deuce,  Morti 
mer.  It  must  be  paid  to-day;  that's  a  debt  of 
honor.  How  can  we  obtain  the  money? 

MORTIMER.  I  can  try  Abrahams  again,  sir, 
but  he  was  very  difficult  the  last  time. 

BEAU.  [Rings  bell.  Enter  SIMPSON  from  ante 
room.  Without  looking  at  him.}  Simpson! 


34  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

SIMPSON.   Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.    Go  to  Mr.  Abrahams.    Of  course,  you 
know  where  he  lives. 

SIMPSON.   Yes,  sir. 

[MORTIMER  brings  table  back  to  place  up  at  Right. 

BEAU.  Say  Mr.  Brummell  requests  his  im 
mediate  attendance. 

SIMPSON.   Very  well,  sir ! 

[Exit  SIMPSON. 

MORTIMER.  [Coming  doivn]  Mr.  Brummell, 
sir,  this  can't  go  on  much  longer. 

BEAU.   No,  I  hope  not. 

MORTIMER.  Everybody's  pressing  on  you,  and 
the  only  thing  that  keeps  them  off  at  all  is  your 
friendship  with  the  Prince,  and  if  anything  should 
happen  to  that  — 

BEAU.  [Quite  unaffectedly]  Nothing  could 
happen  to  that,  Mortimer,  and  if  anything  did,  I 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  35 

should  cut  the  Prince  and  make  the  old  King  the 
fashion.  [Rises. 

MORTIMER.  I  have  been  wondering,  Mr.  Brum- 
mell,  if  I  might  be  so  bold,  if  you  had  ever  thought, 
sir,  of  the  advisability  of  a  rich  marriage. 

BEAU.  Yes,  it  has  occurred  to  me  occasionally ; 
in  fact,  it  has  passed  through  my  mind  quite 
recently  that  it  might  be  desirable.  Only  to  de 
cide  on  the  person  really  seems  too  difficult  a  task 
for  me  to  undertake.  You  would  not  have  me 
marry  a  mere  money-bag,  would  you,  Mortimer  ? 

MORTIMER.  [At  left  of  table.}  But  the  great 
Mr.  Brummell  has  only  to  choose. 

BEAU.  [Staring  at  him  in  utter  surprise  that  such 
a  remark  should  be  necessary.}  Yes,  of  course! 
But  one  desires  some  sentiment.  I  wouldn't 
care  to  make  a  loan  for  life  and  give  myself  as 
security. 


36  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MORTIMER.  Mr.  Brummell,  sir,  have  you  ever 
observed  Miss  Mariana  Vincent  ? 

BEAU.  [Thoughtfully.]  Yes,  I  have  noticed  her 
in  the  Mall,  and  I  must  confess  it  was  to  admire 
her;  her  person  is  perfect.  Is  her  matrimonial 
figure  as  good  ? 

MORTIMER.  I  believe  it  is  sixty  thousand 
pounds,  sir. 

BEAU.   Oh,  dear ! 

MORTIMER.  [Hastily.]  But  Mr.  Vincent 
would  be  ashamed  to  offer  so  little  to  the  wife  of 
Mr.  Brummell. 

BEAU.  [Musingly.]  Yes,  it's  a  very  paltry 
sum,  and  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  — 

MORTIMER.  [Insinuatingly.]  If  you  could  pre 
sent  her  to  the  Prince,  Mr.  Brummell,  don't  you 
think  a  Platonic  friendship  might  spring  up  there  ? 

BEAU.    [As    though    thinking    aloud.]     She    is 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  37 

ambitious,  but  she  is  clever  and  would  never  for 
give  a  slight.  She  is  a  good  hater,  and  if  she 
thought  she  were  being  put  upon  one  side,  she 
would  make  a  sly  enemy.  Well  —  we  shall  see. 
Mortimer,  write  a  letter  to  Mr.  Vincent  —  make 
my  proposal  for  his  daughter's  hand.  Be  mindful 
of  your  language  and  careful  to  accomplish  it  in 
the  most  elegant  manner,  and  request  an  im 
mediate  reply. 
MORTIMER.  Yes,  sir. 

SIMPSON.    [Enters  at  Left  from  ante-room.}     Mr. 
Reginald  Courtenay,  sir. 

BEAU.    Yes,  you  may  bid  him  come  in    here. 

[REGINALD  comes   rushing  in  from   ante-room. 

He  is  a  handsome,  bright-faced  lad  of  twenty, 

dressed  simply,  in  great  contrast  to  BEAU'S 

gorgeous  attire. 

REGINALD.    [Speaks  very  loud.}     Ah  !  Mortimer. 


38  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

[Crossing  to  BEAU,  after  placing  hat  and  cane  on 

table,  with  hand  extended.}     Good  morning,  Uncle 

Beau! 

BEAU.  Reginald  !  You  are  evidently  laboring 
under  the  impression  that  I  am  a  great  distance 
off.  [MORTIMER  goes  into  bedroom. 

REGINALD.  [In  a  much  lower  tone.]  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Uncle  Beau.  [Bows.]  Good  morning. 

[Hand  extended. 

BEAU.  No,  I  don't  think  I  will  shake  hands ; 
men  shake  hands  much  too  often,  especially  in 
warm  weather.  A  glance  of  the  eye,  Reginald  — 
a  glance  of  the  eye  !  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you, 
Reginald,  how  thoughtful  our  Creator  was,  in 
giving  us  bodies,  to  give  them  to  us  naked,  so  that 
we  could  dress  and  ornament  them  as  wre  choose  ? 

REGINALD.  It  had  not  occurred  to  me  before, 
Uncle. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  39 

BEAU.    No,  I  suppose  not. 
REGINALD.   I  trust  you  are  well  this  morning  ? 
BEAU.   No,  I've  contracted  a  cold  —  I  suppose 
everybody   will   have   a   cold   now.     I   left   my 
carriage  on  the  way  to  the  Pavilion  last  night, 
and  the  wretch  of  a  landlord  put  me  into  the 
same  room  with  a  damp  stranger. 

REGINALD.  [Goes  up,  sits  on  settee  at  Right,  with 
a  change  of  tone  and  manner.]  Uncle,  I  want 
your  advice  and  help. 

BEAU.  [Goes  to  REGINALD,  and  puts  his  hand 
on  his  shoulder  and  speaks  with  real  affection.] 
All  the  advice  I  have  is  yours.  Reginald,  my 
boy,  I  trust  you  haven't  gotten  yourself  into 
difficulties.  You  are  the  one  creature  in  the 
world  whom  I  love,  and  I  think  it  would  break  my 
heart  to  see  you  in  any  trouble  from  which  I  could 
not  free  you.  Your  mother,  my  boy,  was  a 


40  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

mother  to  me  for  years,  and  when  I  lost  my  sister 
I  lost  the  best  friend  I  ever  had.  She  saw  the 
heart  that  beat  beneath  the  waistcoat.  Moreover, 
she  helped  me  always  —  in  every  way ;  if  it  had 
not  been  for  her,  perhaps  even  now,  I  might  be  in 
some  smoky  office  in  the  city  —  that  undiscovered 
country  from  whose  bourn  no  social  traveler  ever 
returns.  [Crosses  back  to  dressing-table.]  What 
is  it,  Reginald?  If  you  are  in  debt,  I  will  give 
you  a  letter  to  Mr.  Abrahams.  If  you  are  in  the 
blue-devils,  I  will  give  you  one  to  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn. 

REGINALD.  [Rises  and  comes  down  to  BEAU.] 
I  am  in  neither,  Uncle  Beau ;  I  am  in  love. 

BEAU.  Dear  me,  that's  worse  than  either. 
How  do  you  know  you  are? 

REGINALD.  Why  —  well  —  I  feel  it  here  !  [In 
dicating  heart.}  I  live  only  when  she  is  present, 
and  merely  exist  when  away  from  her. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  41 

BEAU.  [Staring  at  him  through  his  glass.} 
Reginald,  don't  talk  like  a  family  newspaper. 
Is  your  fair  one  possible  ? 

REGINALD.  [Indignantly.]  If  you  mean  is  she 
a  gentlewoman,  she  is,  and  besides,  young  and 
beautiful  —  and  - 

BEAU.    [At  Right.]     Of  course,  she  wrould  be. 
But  does  she  return  your  passion? 
REGINALD.    She  loves  me,  Uncle. 
BEAU.   Of  course,   she  would  —  but  - 
REGINALD.   Her  father  is  opposed  to  me.     He 
has  forbidden  our  seeing  each  other  ;  our  meetings 
have  to  be  clandestine,  and  our  mutual  correspond 
ence  is  carried  on  through  her  maid.     He  wishes 
a  title  for  his  daughter.     He  is  rich  and  seeks 
only    position    in    the   wrorld   of    society,    wThile 
she,   ah !    she   cares    nothing    for    it  —  only  - 
for  —  me. 


42  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

BEAU.  [Looking  at  him  through  glass.}  Regi 
nald,  do  you  know  I  think  you  are  more  conceited 
than  I  am. 

REGINALD.  [At  Center.}  Oh,  no !  [Bowing.} 
Oh !  Uncle  Beau,  you,  who  are  so  high  in  favor  at 
the  Court,  who  have  Dukes  at  your  elbow  and  the 
Regent  on  your  arm,  might  help  me  in  a  worldly 
way,  that  I  might  win  over  the  father.  I  know 
that  I  am  dear  to  you,  as  you  are  to  me  —  and 
that  is  why  I  have  come  to  you  ! 

BEAU.  And  you  shall  not  have  come  in  vain. 
[With  enthusiasm.]  By  my  manners  !  You  shall 
have  the  girl  if  I  have  to  plead  for  you  myself. 
But  that  will  not  be  necessary.  No,  I  will  give 
you  social  distinction  and  prominence  much  more 
easily.  Come  for  me  in  a  little  while,  and  I'll 
walk  along  the  Mall  with  you  to  White's.  Yes, 
and  be  seen  with  you  at  the  Club  window  a  few 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  43 

moments.     Now,    my   dear   boy,   can   anybody 
possibly  do  anything  more  for  you  ? 

[With  absolute  conviction. 

REGINALD.  [Pleased.]  No,  Uncle.  [Turning 
to  go.]  Yes,  Uncle  —  you  can  do  one  thing  more 
for  me.  I've  left  my  purse  ;  will  you  lend  me  a 
couple  of  crowns  to  take  a  chair  with?  I've 
missed  an  appointment  with  the  maid,  and  I  wish 
to  return  to  the  Park  in  a  hurry. 

BEAU.  Reginald,  you  know  I  never  use  silver, 
it's  so  excessively  dirty  and  heavy.  Ask  Morti 
mer  for  a  couple  of  guineas  as  you  go  out. 
[REGINALD  starts  to  go.]  By  the  way,  Reginald, 
it  is  just  possible  that  I  may  enter  into  the  golden 
bands  myself.  I  am  thinking  somewhat  of  a 
marriage  with  a  certain  young  lady  whose  charms, 
strange  to  say,  very  much  resemble  those  you 
would  have  described  had  I  permitted  you  to 
inflict  me. 


44  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

REGINALD.  [Laughing.]  You  marry !  Uncle ! 
You ! '  Your  wit  makes  me  laugh  in  spite  of  my 
dolours.  Imagine  the  great  Beau  Brummell 
married !  Why,  Uncle,  your  children  would  be 
little  Rosettes. 

BEAU.  [Wincing.]  Reginald,  never  be  guilty 
of  a  pun ;  it  is  excessively  vulgar.  I  am  serious. 
I  think  I  may  marry. 

REGINALD.  [Going  to  BEAU  and  offering  hand 
quickly.]  Then,  Uncle,  I  am  glad  for  you. 

BEAU.    [Starts,   looks  at   hand  with   eye-glass.] 
Dear  me,  what's  that  ?    Oh,  dear,  no,  Reginald  - 
a  glance  of  the  eye.     [REGINALD  drops  hand.] 
A  glance  of  the  eye  !     My  boy,  you  look  so  like 
your  mother  —  God  bless  you  ! 

[REGINALD  goes  to  table   at  Left  for  hat  and 
stick. 

BEAU.   You  will  return? 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  45 

REGINALD.    [Boisterously,    crossing   to    door   at 
Left.]     Yes,  shortly. 

BEAU.    [Again    shocked    at    his     loud     tone.] 
Reginald ! 

[REGINALD  stops,  returns  a  step  or  two,  looks  at 
BEAU  as  if  to  say,  "  What  is  it  ? ' '  BEAU  bows 
very  politely.  REGINALD  remembers  he  had 
forgotten  himself  for  a  minute,  bows,  places 
hat  on  his  head,  as  he  turns,  and  exits  less 
boisterously. 

SIMPSON.  [Enters  from  ante-room  as  REGINALD 
exits.]  Mr.  Abrahams,  sir. 

BEAU.   Yes,  you  can  let  him  in  here. 
SIMPSON.   [Exits  and  returns,  ushering  in  ABRA 
HAMS.]     Mr.  Abrahams,  sir. 

ABRAHAMS.  [Enters  with  assurance.]  I  under 
stand,  Mr.  Brummell,  that  you  wished  to  see  me. 
I  had  much  difficulty  in  leaving  my  place  of  busi 
ness,  but  you  see  I  am  here. 


46  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

BEAU.  [Glancing  at  him  through  his  glass.] 
Ah  —  Abrahams  —  ah,  yes  !  So  you  are,  so  you 
are. 

ABRAHAMS.  [Insinuatingly.]  I  thought  it  was 
likely,  sir,  that  you  wished  to  make  a  few  pay 
ments. 

BEAU.  [Dryly.]  I  think  that's  wrong,  Abra 
hams  ;  do  you  know,  I  fear  you  will  have  to  guess 
again. 

ABRAHAMS.  [With  indignation.]  Well  now, 
really,  Mr.  Brummell,  I  hope  you  don't  want  to 
raise  another  loan. 

BEAU.  [Pleased  that  he  has  surmised  it.]  I 
believe  that's  right,  Abrahams ;  second  thoughts 
seem  to  be  always  the  best. 

ABRAHAMS.  [Very  loudly.]  Really,  Mr.  Brum 
mell,  sir,  I'm  sorry,  sir,  but  the  fact  is  I  can't 
possibly  —  [Enter  Simpson  from  ante-room. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  47 

SIMPSON.  [Interrupting  ABRAHAMS.]  A  foot 
man  from  His  Royal  Highness,  the  Prince  Regent, 
sir. 

BEAU.  [Quite  unconcernedly.]  Yes,  you  can 
let  him  come  in  here. 

[ABRAHAMS  looks  at  BEAU,  and  backs  up  a  trifle. 
Enter  footman.     Stands  below  door. 

BEAU.  [Without  looking  at  him.}  Mortimer, 
which  one  is  it  ? 

MORTIMER.  [Who  had  come  in  from  bedroom.} 
Bendon,  sir. 

BEAU.  [At  Right.  Graciously.}  Very  well, 
Bendon. 

FOOTMAN.  [With  great  respect.]  Mr.  Brum- 
mell,  sir,  His  Royal  Highness  wishes  to  know  if 
you  will  be  at  home  this  afternoon  at  four  o'clock. 
If  so,  he  will  call  upon  you  to  make  arrangements 
for  the  dance  at  Carl  ton  House. 


48  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

BEAU.  At  what  o'clock  did  you  say,  Ben- 
don? 

BENDON.    [With  low  bow.]     At  four  o'clock,  sir. 
BEAU.   Say  to  His  Royal*  Highness  to  make  it 
half-past  four  o'clock. 

[Exit  footman  at  Left,  followed  by  SIMPSON. 
ABRAHAMS  is  overcome  with  wonder  at  this, 
and  looks  at  MORTIMER,  who  draws  himself 
up  proudly. 

BEAU.  [As  if  recollecting  his  presence.]  You 
were  saying,  Mr.  Abrahams,  that  you  could  not 
possibly  — 

ABRAHAMS.    [Bowing,    changing    attitude    and 
tone.]     H'm,  ach  —  hem  —  that  I  should  be  very 
glad  —  though   I   am   just   now    rather   pressed 
myself.     How  much  did  you  say,  sir? 
BEAU.   How  much  did  I  say,  Mortimer? 

[Enter  REGINALD,  same  door. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  49 

REGINALD.    [Boisterously  rushing  to  BEAU,  Left 

Centre.}     Am  I  in  good  time,  Uncle? 

BEAU.    [Startled.]     Reginald,   how  often   have 

I  told  you  to  enter  a  room  properly.     You  came 

in    like  —  like    a  —  Mortimer,    what    did    Mr. 

Reginald  come  like  ? 

MORTIMER.    [Reproachfully.]    Like  a  thunder- 

• 
bolt,  sir. 

BEAU.  Ah,  yes  —  like  a  thunderbolt ;  very 
unpleasant  things,  thunderbolts.  Mortimer, 
have  I  ever  seen  a  thunderbolt? 

MORTIMER.   Once,  sir. 

BEAU.  Yes ;  I  once  saw  a  thunderbolt ;  very 
unpleasant  things,  thunderbolts.  You  must  not 
come  in  like  a  thunderbolt,  Reginald. 

REGINALD.  [Looking  at  ABRAHAMS.]  I  beg 
your  pardon,  Uncle  Beau.  Are  you  busy? 

BEAU.    [As  if  startled.}     I  beg  your  pardon  — 


5o  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

REGINALD.   Are  you  busy? 

BEAU.  Busy !  Ugh !  Never  employ  that 
term  with  me.  No  gentleman  is  ever  busy. 
Insects  and  city  people  are  busy.  This  —  ah  — 
person  has  come  to  ask  my  assistance  in  some 
little  financial  matters,  and  I  think  I've  rather 
promised  to  oblige  him.  Mortimer,  go  with 
this  —  ah  —  ah  —  person.  You  go  with  my 
valet.  [ABRAHAMS  bows  and  bows.]  Yes,  quite 
so,  quite  so. 

[Exit  MORTIMER  and  ABRAHAMS  into  ante 
room  at  Left,  ABRAHAMS  backing,  bowing  all 
the  time. 

REGINALD.  [Gloomily  sitting  on  sofa.]  I  was 
too  late ;  I  missed  her. 

BEAU.  Don't  be  gloomy,  Reginald,  or  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  walk  with  you.  Nothing  is  more 
conspicuous  than  melancholy. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  5I 

[MORTIMER  returns  —  coughs. 

BEAU.    Mortimer,   are  you   coughing? 

MORTIMER.    [Apologetically.]     Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.  [At  Right.}  Well,  I  wish  you  wouldn't. 
You  wish  to  speak  with  me? 

MORTIMER.  Yes,  sir.  [BEAU  crosses,  bowing  in 
apology  as  he  passes  REGINALD.]  Mr.  Brummell, 
sir,  everything  is  arranged  satisfactorily,  sir. 

BEAU.  Did  you  send  for  the  new  tailor,  what's 
his  name,  to  come  this  afternoon? 

MORTIMER.   Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.  And  have  you  written  the  letter  to  Mr. 
Vincent? 

MORTIMER.   Yes,  sir,  all  ready  to  seal. 

BEAU.  Then  seal  it  and  despatch  it  at  once. 
And  now,  Reginald,  come  with  me  and  you  shall 
see  me  having  my  coat  put  on. 

[REGINALD  rises. 


S2  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

[Exit  BEAU  and  REGINALD  into  bedroom.  Enter 
KATHLEEN  from  ante-room. 

KATHLEEN.  La  !  I  must  come  in  for  a  minute. 
I  missed  my  young  gentleman  in  the  Park,  and  I 
ventured  back  to  ask  how  we  are  to  discover  who 
he  is.  That's  what  we  must  do  somehow,  but 
how?  [REGINALD  enters  from  bedroom. 

REGINALD.  [Coming  down.]  Mr.  BrummelPs 
snuff-box,  Mortimer. 

[REGINALD  and  KATHLEEN  recognize  each  other. 

REGINALD.   Her  maid ! 

KATHLEEN.  [To MORTIMER.]  Oh, Lord!  The 
very  young  gentleman  himself. 

MORTIMER.   What ! 

REGINALD.  [At  Left.  Suspiciously.]  What  are 
you  doing  here  ? 

KATHLEEN.  [At  Centre.]  Why,  I  missed  you 
in  the  Park,  sir  —  you  were  too  early.  [To 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  53 

MORTIMER.]  Will  you  say  something?  But  I 
saw  you  in  advance  of  me.  [To  MORTIMER.] 
Give  utterance  to  something  !  And  I  followed 
you  here  to  give  you  this  letter.  [Gives  note  to 
REGINALD.  To  MORTIMER.]  I  had  to  give  it 
to  him  that  time. 

BEAU.    [Outside,  calling.}     Reginald  ! 
[MORTIMER  and  REGINALD  rush  KATHLEEN  off 
through  bay  window.     MORTIMER  stands  at 
window  -after    drawing    curtain.     REGINALD 
crosses  to  table  at  Left  Centre,  and  stands  back 
of  same.     Enter  BEAU  from  bedroom. 
BEAU.    [At  Centre  door.]     Mortimer,  what  was 
that  extraordinary  commotion  ? 

MORTIMER.    [At  Right,  at  window,  innocently.] 
What  commotion,  sir? 

BEAU.    [Standing     in     doorway.]     Mortimer, 
don't  be  an  echo  ;  how  often  have  I  told  you  that 


54  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

servants  are  born  to  answer  questions,  not  to  ask 

them?    I  believe  you  said  the  sun  was  shining? 

• 

[Crosses  to  window. 

REGINALD.    [Very  loud,  stopping  him.]    Uncle 

Beau,  your  snuff-box.  [Offering  box. 

BEAU.    [At    Centre.     Starts.}     Ah!    I  knew   I 

lacked  something ;  I  perceived  I  had  on  my  coat, 

my    fob,    my    waistcoat,    my    unmentionables. 

Dear  me,  yes,  it  was  my  snuff-box  —  thank  you, 

thank  you.  [He  docs  not  take  snuff-box. 

[He  is  now  fully  dressed  —  long  brown  trousers, 

fitting  very  closely  around  the  leg  and  buttoned 

around  the  ankle,  a  yellow  brocaded  waistcoat, 

brown  coat,  ruffled  shirt  with  neckerchief,  fob 

with  many  seals.     He  crosses  to  dressing-table 

and  arranges  flowers  —  three  yellow  roses  — 

in  his  coat.     MORTIMER  has  crossed  to  table 

and    stands    holding    hat,    gloves    and    stick. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  55 

REGINALD  has  the  snuff-box.  BEAU  turns 
from  dressing-table,  comes  to  the  Centre. 
REGINALD  offers  him  the  snuff-box  open. 
BEAU  takes  a  pinch  with  courteous  nod  of  head. 
REGINALD  takes  pinch,  closes  box,  hands  it  to 
BEAU,  who  holds  it  in  hand.  MORTIMER  then 
hands  him  gloves.  BEAU  arranges  them  in  hand 
very  precisely.  MORTIMER  then  hands  stick. 
BEAU  puts  this  in  just  right  position.  MORTI 
MER  then  hands  hat.  BEAU  takes  it,  is  about 
to  put  it  on,  then  looks  at  it,  stands  aghast,  and 
hands  it  back  with  no  word,  but  just  an  expres 
sion  of  complete  astonishment.  MORTIMER, 
very  puzzled,  takes  it  and  then  sees  that  he  has 
handed  it  with  the  wrong  side  to  put  on.  Bows 
very  low  with  an  expression  of  great  chagrin. 
Turns  it  and  hands  it  to  BEAU.  BEAU  takes 
it,  walks  to  mirror,  raises  it  two  or  three  times 


56  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

until  he  has  it  at  just  the  right  angle,  then  puts 
it  on.     Turns  to  REGINALD. 
BEAU.   And   now,    Reginald,    I'll   make   your 
fortune  for  you.     I'll  walk  down  the  Mall  with 
you  to  White's. 

[Walks  to  door,  followed  by  REGINALD,  as 

THE    CURTAIN    FALLS 


THE   FIRST  ACT 

SCENE  Two 

The  BEAU'S  reception-room.  A  small  room,  fur 
nished  in  chintz.  Chippendale  sofa  at  the  Right. 
Large  entrance  at  back  with  red  striped  chintz 
curtains.  Palms  in  window.  A  table  on  tlie 
Left  holds  a  standing  memorandum  tablet.  Small 
arm-chair  back  of  sofa.  Two  or  three  other  chairs 
scattered  around  the  room.  A  door  at  the  Left. 
BEAU  BRUMMELL  at  the  rise  of  curtain  is  stand 
ing  by  table,  looking  at  the  memorandum  tablet 
through  his  eye-glass.  He  is  dressed  as  in 
Scene  One.  SIMPSON  draws  the  curtains  at  the 
back,  and  announces: 
SIMPSON.  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn,  sir ! 
[SIMPSON  then  leaves  the  curtains  drawn  and  goes 
out.  BEAU  turns  and  bows. 
57 


58  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

BEAU.   Punctual    as    the    day,  and    twice    as 
welcome. 

[MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  has  sailed  into  the  room  with 
an  air  'that  plainly  says,  "  You  and  I  are  to 
settle  some  important  things  to-day."     She  is 
a    very    handsome    woman    of    about    thirty, 
beautifully  dressed,  and  showing  in  every  look 
and  motion  the  woman  accustomed  to  homage 
and  command.     She  carries  a  fan,  which  she 
uses  to  emphasize  all  her  remarks. 
MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.   You  received  my  letter? 
BEAU.    [With    another    bow.]     And    your    am 
brosial  lock  of  hair. 

[MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  is  at  first  of  ended,  and  then 

laughs  and  sits  on  sofa. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.   Not  mine,  my  dear  Beau ; 
you  know  I'm  not  such  a  fool. 

[BEAU  is  not  at  all  taken  aback  by  the  mistake  he 
has  made. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  59 

BEAU.  Ah,  no,  I  believe  I  am  mistaken ;  but, 
my  dear  Horatia,  one  gets  things  of  this  sort  so 
mixed ;  and  I  plead  in  extenuation  that  the  wish 
was  father  to  the  thought. 

[BEAU  sits  in  chair  near  table. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Have  you  missed  me  really 
these  last  two  days?  Where  have  you  been? 
It's  been  so  dull  without  you,  I  vow,  I  could 
almost  have  married  again.  [Leans  forward  and 
speaks  very  confidentially.]  Now,  I  want  you  to 
do  me  a  favor,  will  you? 

BEAU.   Whisper  it  and  it  is  done. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Well,  then,  I  will  whisper. 
I  want  you  to  get  me  a  card  to  the  dance  at 
Carlton  House. 

BEAU.  The  very  privilege  that  I  have  looked 
forward  to.  I  desire  to  present  you  myself  to 
the  Prince,  and  witness  your  triumph.  An 


60  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

unselfish  pleasure,  you  would  say,  but  I  love  you 
too  well,  my  dear  Horatia,  not  to  sacrifice  myself 
to  your  greatest  opportunity. 

[During  this  speech,  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  has 
listened  with  a  slight  cynical  smile,  and  now 
with  an  air  of  finality  says : 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  I  would  not  give  up  your 
devotion  altogether  —  even  for  the  Prince's. 

[With  great   empressement. 

BEAU.   Take  both.    Mine  you  will  always  have. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Yet  I  think  my  devotion  for 
you  overbalances  yours. 

BEAU.  My  dear  madam,  you  are  too  good.  Do 
you  know,  I  fear  you  will  die  young  ? 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  [With  an  air  of  giving  up 
this  contest  of  wits.]  Oh,  the  deuce  take  your 
fine  phrases !  If  I  thought  I'd  a  rival,  I'd  let 
the  Prince  flit  somewhere  else.  You're  clever 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  61 

and  the  Prince  isn't.  He'll  be  very  dull.  Then 
he'll  be  harder  to  keep  within  bounds.  Oh, 
[quickly  as  she  sees  an  almost  imperceptible  shrug 
of  BEAU'S  shoulder]  it  isn't  that  I'm  afraid  for 
my  reputation — that  was  damned  long  ago.  But 
I've  certain  notions  of  self-respect  which  aren't 
in  the  fashion  and  which  men  don't  seem  to 
understand. 

BEAU.    [Very  quietly.}     Marry  him  ! 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  [With  real  astonishment.] 
What! 

BEAU.  [Taking  out  snuff-box  and  taking  sniiff.] 
Marry  him. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.   It  is  impossible  ! 

BEAU.   With  you  all  things  are  possible. 

[MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  laughs  nervously  and  steals  a 
surreptitious  look  at  herself  in  a  little  mirror 
in  her  fan. 


62  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  My  dear  Beau,  I  wish  you'd 
make  plain  sense  instead  of  pretty  sentences. 
What  advantages  have  I  to  recommend  me  ? 

BEAU.  I  will  ask  Mortimer  to  make  out  a  list, 
but  I  may  name  one  only  — which  is  all-sufficient. 
For  the  past  six  weeks  —  I  have  admired  you. 

[MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  rises  with  a  laugh. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Oh,  the  conceit  of  the  man  ! 
But  tell  me  what  style  of  woman  is  the  Prince 
caught  by? 

[BEAU  rising  also. 

BEAU.  To  be  perfectly  frank  with  you,  the 
Prince  admires  the  fashion,  and  I  —  have  made 
you  the  fashion.  I  am  expecting  him  here  this 
afternoon. 

[MRS.  ST.   AUBYN   gives   a   shriek    of  dismay. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Who?  The  Prince!  Gra 
cious,  why  didn't  you  tell  me?  [Runs  to  che- 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  63 

mi-glass.]  How  am  I  looking?  There,  there, 
you  needn't  answer ;  I  know  it  is  one  of  my  bad 
days. 

[BEAU  is  really  very  much  upset  by  this  rushing 
around  and  rapid  talking.  Speaks  as  though 
quite  overcome. 

BEAU.   My  dear  Horatia,  I  beg  of  you  not  to 

rattle  on  so ;  you've  no  idea  how  you  fatigue  me. 

[SIMPSON  enters  at   back    and  announces: 

SIMPSON.   The   Duchess   of  Leamington,   Mr. 

Sheridan,    sir !  [SIMPSON    goes    out. 

[MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  says  to  herself,  as  she  comes 

down  to  chair  at  right  of  sofa : 
MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.   Damme,  that  woman. 
\TJte   DUCHESS   and   MR.    SHERIDAN   enter   at 
back.     The  DUCHESS  is  a  very  much  painted 
and  bewigged  old  young  woman,  dressed  in  a 
very  light  flowered  gown,  with  a  very  large  hat. 


64  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

SHERIDAN  is  still  handsome,  but  no  longer 
young,  dressed  in  black  silk  knee-breeches, 
black  coat  and  stockings ;  he  wears  the  powdered 
wig  instead  of  short  hair  like  BEAU'S.  The 
DUCHESS  makes  low  curtsy  to  BEAU,  who 
bows. 

BEAU.  Ah,  Duchess,  what  happy  accident ! 
Has  your  carriage  broken  down  at  my  door,  or 
do  you  come  out  of  your  own  sweet  charity? 
We  were  just  speaking  of  you.  I  said  you  were 
the  best-dressed  woman  in  London,  but  Mrs. 
St.  Aubyn  did  not  seem  to  agree  with  me.  [To 
SHERIDAN.]  How  do  you  do,  Sherry? 

[Nods  to  SHERIDAN  and,  crossing  to  him,  offers 

him  snuff-box.     SHERIDAN  takes  snuff. 
DUCHESS.    [As  though  noticing  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN 
for  the  first  time,  says  superciliously :[    How  d'ye 
do? 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  65 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.    [Haughtily.]     Mr.  Brummell 

pleases   to   be   witty   at   my   expense,    Duchess. 

[Then  to  herself.]     I  must  be  on  my  guard.     I 

don't  understand  Beau. 

[The  DUCHESS  seats  herself  on  sofa.  MRS.  ST. 
AUBYN  is  sitting  in  chair  just  below  sofa. 
BEAU  is  sitting  at  chair  near  table,  and  SHERI 
DAN  is  still  standing. 

DUCHESS.    Mr.  Sheridan  and  I  thought  we'd 

come  to  tell  you  the  news.     We  knew  you  were 

never  up  till  noon,  and  thought  you  might  want 

to  hear  what's  going  on. 

[SHERIDAN  now    brings  down    chair  from    the 

back,  and  sits  about  Centre. 

SHERIDAN.   And  when  we  were  nearly  here  we 

remembered  that  really  there  was  nothing  to  tell. 

There  seems  to  be  a  lamentable  dearth  of  scandal 

and  gossip  nowadays.     I  don't  know  what  we  are 


66  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

coming  to.     The  ladies  have  absolutely  nothing 

to  talk  about. 

BEAU.  Sherry,  I  hear  the  "  School  for  Scandal " 
is  to  be  revived.  It  returns  to  us  every  year  like 
Spring  and  the  influenza. 

SHERIDAN.  [Regretfully.]  Yes,  but  it  won't 
be  played  as  it  used  to  be. 

BEAU.    [Thankfully.]     No,  I  hope  not. 

DUCHESS.  Dear  me,  only  think  of  Miss 
Motional  playing  Lady  Teazle  now,  at  her  age  ! 
Why  is  it  that  passe  people  are  always  so  anxious 
to  act?  [With  a  little  a/ecled  giggle.]  I  wonder 
you  don't  go  on  the  stage,  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn? 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  [With  great  sweetness.]  I 
never  experienced  a  scandal  of  sufficient  eclat 
to  warrant  such  a  step.  But  you,  Duchess,  what 
a  success  you  would  have  ! 

DUCHESS.    Spiteful  creature  ! 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  67 

BEAU.   How  very  severe  — 

[SIMPSON  enters  at  back,  and  announces: 
SIMPSON.   His    Royal    Highness,    the    Prince 
Regent,  sir. 

[SIMPSON  exits.     The  PRINCE  enters;  does  not 
remove    his    hat.     All    rise.     DUCHESS    and 
MRS.    ST.    AUBYN    curtsy.     SHERIDAN    bows 
very  low  and  BEAU  bows  rather  condescendingly. 
PRINCE.   Ah,  Beau,  good  morning. 
BEAU.   This  is  very  good  of  you,    sir.     The 
Duchess,  I  am  sure,  is  a  welcome  vision!     Sherry 
you  know,  and  you  have  heard  —  surely  you  have 
heard  of  the  fascinating  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn. 
PRINCE.    But  never  have  seen  half  enough. 
BEAU.   Where  will  you  put  yourself,  sir  ? 
PRINCE.    [Very  emphatically  says  as  he  crosses 
to  sofa:]  Damme,  here. 

[He  sits  on  sofa  and  makes  a  motion  with  his 


68  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

hand,  inviting  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  to  sit  beside 
him.  To  do  this,  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  has  to 
cross  injront  of  the  DUCHESS,  which  she  does 
with  a  look  of  triumph,  while  the  DUCHESS, 
in  moving  to  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN'S  vacated  seat, 
turns  up  her  nose  as  much  as  to  say,  "That 
won't  last  long"  And  BEAU,  having  witnessed 
all  this  little  byplay,  has  a  little  smile  as  he  sees 
all  is  just  as  he  wants  it. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  I  believe,  sir,  Mr.  Sheridan 
is  thinking  of  a  new  play. 

PRINCE.  Don't  you  put  me  in,  Sherry,  or,  if 
you  do,  mind  you  make  me  thin.  A  fat  man 
played  me  in  the  pantomime  t'other  night,  and 
damme,  I  had  him  locked  up. 

SHERIDAN.  [With  great  deference.]  'Twas  a 
libel,  sir,  a  gross  libel. 

PRINCE.   I  heard,  Beau,  from  my  tailor,  this 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  69 

morning,  that  you  had  gotten  up  something  new 
in  trousers.  Why  the  deuce  haven't  you  told  me  ? 

DUCHESS.  [With  a/ected  girlishness.}  Oh,  dear 
me,  what  are  the  new  trousers? 

SHERIDAN.  {Maliciously.}  Why,  Duchess,  I 
don't  see  how  they  can  possibly  interest  you. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Mr.  Sheridan,  Mr.  Sheridan, 
both  your  plays  and  your  conversation  ought 
to  be  expurgated. 

DUCHESS.  Come,  come,  stop  all  this  banter, 
and  Mr.  Brummell  will  tell  us. 

BEAU.  [As  though  bored  by  all  this  chatter.} 
You  niust  excuse  me,  Duchess ;  I  have  contracted 
a  cold. 

PRINCE.  I'll  tell  you,  Duchess;  they're  long 
trousers  which  are  slit  so  [pointing  with  his  cane 
to  his  own  leg}  at  the  bottom,  and  then  buttoned 
tight.  Very  odd,  you  see,  and  striking. 


?0  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

DUCHESS.   It   might   be   too   striking;     don't 
you    think    it    depends    on    the  —  eh  —  eh  - 
circumstances  ? 

[She  draws  her  skirt  up  very  slightly,  and  strikes 

her  leg  with  her  fan. 

PRINCE.  Damme,  Duchess,  you're  right;  and 
that's  just  what  I  want  to  know  of  Beau  here, 
whether  he  thinks  my  legs  could  stand  'em. 

BEAU.   Really,  my  dear  fellow,  I'm  no  judge 

of  calves.  \All  laugh. 

SHERIDAN.   You  must  appeal  to  the  ladies,  sir. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.    [Feigning   to  hide  her  face 

with  her  fan.}  •  No,  no ;    I  object ! 

BEAU.  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  means  they  are  little 
trifles  not  worth  mentioning. 

PRINCE.  Now,  I  object.  Besides,  I've  some 
thing  else  to  talk  about.  What  think  you,  Beau, 
of  Tuesdav  week  for  the  dance  at  Carlton  House  ? 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  71 

[BEAU  rises  very  slowly,  takes  tablet,  looks  it  over. 
BEAU.   Tuesday,    Tuesday  —  yes,    I    think    I 
might  make  Tuesday  do. 

[PRINCE  rises,  and  everybody  rises. 
PRINCE.    [To  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.]     You  will  not 
forget,  then,  siren,  the  opening  quadrille  with  me. 
May  I  take  you  to  your  chair? 

[MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  makes  him  a  low  curtsy. 
MRS.   ST.  AUBYN.    You  make    me    wish    my 
chair  was  at  my  own  door,  instead  of  at  Mr. 
BrummeH's. 

BEAU.  That's  very  good,  very  good. 
[MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  curtsies  with  a  look  of  triumph 
to  the  DUCHESS.  The  PRINCE  holds  out  his 
hand.  She  places  her  hand  lightly  on  his, 
curtsies  low  to  BEAU,  and  retires  up  to  the 
Centre  door,  while  the  PRINCE  is  making  his 
adieus,  which  he  does  by  simply  nodding 


72  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

to  the  DUCHESS  and  SHERIDAN,  most  gra 
ciously  nodding  to  BEAU;  and  then  he  takes 
MRS.  ST.  AUBYN'S  hand  again  and  they  go  ojj 
chattering. 

DUCHESS.  [Who  has  witnessed  this  with  ill- 
concealed  envy.]  Now,  Mr.  Brummell,  promise 
me  you'll  bow  to  me  at  the  play  to-night.  You 
bowed  to  Lady  Farthingale  last  week  Thursday, 
and  she  has  given  herself  airs  ever  since. 

BEAU.  After  the  play,  Duchess,  after  the 
play.  If  I  looked  at  you  once  during  the  play, 
I  could  never  bend  my  attention  again  to  the 
players. 

DUCHESS.  [With  a  girlish  giggle.]  And  that, 
Mr.  Brummell,  would  damn  the  play. 

BEAU.  Yes,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  did.  It 
wouldn't  be  the  first  play  I've  damned. 
[DUCHESS  curtsies,  SHERIDAN  bows,  and  they  go 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  73 

off  at  Centre  door.  BEAU  takes  up  memorandum 
tablet  and  goes  toward  door,  Left,  reading  as  he  goes.] 
Let  me  see  —  Thursday,  lunch  with  Lord  and  Lady 
Pleasant,  then  on  to  Mrs.  Hearsays  —  pour  passer 
le  temps.  Dinner  with  the  Dowager  Countess  of 
Alimony,  dance  at  Gordon  House,  then  to  the 
Rag,  then  to  the  Raleigh,  then  to  Vauxhall. 

[BEAU  goes  out. 

[SIMPSON  enters  at  Centre  door,  showing  in  MR. 
VINCENT.     VINCENT  is  a  stout,  red-faced  man, 
bluff    manner,    dressed    rather    loudly,    with 
brown  bob-wig,  and  he  drops  his  h's. 
SIMPSON.   Whom  shall  I  say,  sir  ? 
VINCENT.   Never   mind   introducing   me.     I'll 
introduce  myself  —  tell  him  a  gentleman  wishes 
to  see  him  in  answer  to  his  message ;  he'll  under 
stand. 

SIMPSON.   Yes,  sir. 


7  4  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

[SIMPSON  goes  out  at  Left  door  with  a  look  oj 
disdain  at  VINCENT. 

VINCENT.  [Who  is  in  a  state  of  great  excitement.] 
Well,  am  1  really  in  the  great  Mr.  BrummelPs 
house  ?  I  thought  I'd  show  my  appreciation  of  the 
honor  I  feel  in  Mr.  Brummell's  suit  for  my  daugh 
ter's  'and  by  answering  his  message  in  person. 
But,  really,  now  I'm  'ere,  I'm  not  sure  I've  done  the 
right  thing.  It's  perfectly  absurd,  ridiculous,  but 
I'm  slightly  nervous.  I,  the  most  successful  cloth 
merchant  of  the  day  — unreasonable  !  I  must  ap 
pear  at  my  ease  or  I  shall  fail  to  make  an  impres 
sion.  Let  me  see,  what  shall  I  say  when  he  comes 
in  ?  After  greeting  him  cordially,  but  with  dignity, 
which  is  due  to  my  position,  I'll  tell  him  in  the 
proper  language,  with  a  few  figures  of  speech  to 
show  I'm  a  man  of  some  learning  —  he's  coming. 
[Shows  great  nervousness.  Begins  to  bow  very 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  75 

low,  moving  first  on  one  foot,  then  on  the  other, 
rubbing  his  hands  together. 
BEAU.    [Enters  from  Left  door;  tablet  in  hand; 
as  he  comes  on  he  says :]     Sunday  —  Sunday  !  — 
VINCENT.   He's  coming,  he's  coming. 
BEAU.   Sunday  after  service,  lunch  with  Lady 
Sybilla  —  Sybiila !     She    is    "un    tant    soit    pen 
passe,"  but  there  was  a  time,  there  was  a  time, 
when  poor  Sybilla  and  I  — 

[VINCENT'S  bowings  and  movements  now  attract 
BEAU'S  attention,  and  he  looks  at  him  through 
eye-glass. 

BEAU.  [To  himself.]  Ah,  yes,  the  new  tailor. 
[Aloud.]  I  will  speak  with  you  presently.  I  am 
somewhat  occupied  just  now.  [Resumes  soliloquy.} 
Dinner  with  Figgles  —  silly  beast,  Figgles,  but 
delicious  truffles. 

[VINCENT  has  still  continued  to  bow. 


76  BEAU  BRUMMELL- 

BEAU.  [Looks  at  him  again.]  Would  you  be  so 
kind  as  not  to  wobble  about  in  that  way  ? 

[VINCENT  stops  a  moment. 

BEAU.  Thank  you.  [Resumes  soliloquy.]  Then 
on  to  Lady  Ancient's  —  very  tedious,  but  I  must 
go  or  the  poor  woman's  rooms  would  be  quite 
vacant. 

[VINCENT  has  again  resumed  his  bowing  and 
clasping  and  unclasping  his  hands. 

BEAU.  [Looks  at  him.]  Did  you  hear  what  I 
observed?  Would  you  be  kind  enough  not  to 
wobble  about  in  that  way,  andWlease  do  not 
wash  your  hands  incessantly  with  imaginary  soap, 
or  chassez  about  in  that  manner  ?  You  have  no 
idea  how  you  distress  me.  [VINCENT  never  stops, 
growing  more  and  more  nervous.]  How  very 
extraordinary ;  he  does  not  seem  to  be  able  to 
stop.  Perhaps  he  is  suffering  with  St.  Vitus's 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  77 

dance.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  employ  a  person 
so  afflicted.  Well,  I  won't  dismiss  him  at  once. 
I'll  turn  my  back  -on  him  so  I  can't  see  him. 
[BEAU  turns  his  back  to  VINCENT.]  Let  me  see, 
where  was  I  —  ah  —  yes,  Lady  Ancient's  very 
tedious,  but  I  must  go  or  the  poor  woman's  rooms 
will  be  quite  empty ;  then  on  to  the  club. 
VINCENT.  [Very  deprecatingly.}  But,  sir  — 
BEAU.  I'll  speak  with  you  presently.  I  am 
somewhat  occupied  just  now,  and,  although  my 
back  is  turned,  I  can  feel  you  are  wobbling  about. 

[To  himself.]   ^  think  I  might  venture  to  play 
i 

again   with   my   present   prospects,   Monday  - 
Monday  — 

VINCENT.    [Who  is  now  getting  restive,  and  realizes 
he  is  being  treated  badly.}     But !  — 

BEAU.   Please  do  not  say  "  but "  again. 

VINCENT.    My  lord  !  — 


78  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

BEAU.   Nothing  so  commonplace. 

VINCENT.   Sir  — 

BEAU.  Very  well,  I  suppose  I  had  better  speak 
with  him  —  the  sooner  it  is  over  the  better. 
You've  come  to  see  me  about  my  suit,  I  suppose. 

VINCENT.  Yes,  the  honor  it  confers  upon  my 
daughter  and  myself  — 

BEAU.  It's  affected  his  head.  Does  your 
daughter  sew,  also? 

VINCENT.  [Surprised.]  Oh,  beautifully,  Mr. 
Brummell,  but  — 

BEAU.  I  must  ask  you  to  omit  your  "buts." 
Now,  if  you  will  stand  perfectly  still  for  a  few 
moments,  I  will  endeavor  to  ask  you  one  or  two 
questions ;  but  you  must  try  to  stand  still,  and  if 
you  try  very  hard,  you  may  succeed.  But  do 
try  —  there's  a  good  man  —  try,  try,  try  again. 
[Aside]  I'm  so  sorry  for  him.  He  must  suffer 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  79 

so.  Well,  I  won't  look  at  him.  [Turns  away  and 
sits  down  at  table.  During  all  this  time  VINCENT 
has  been  bowing,  trying  to  stand  still,  but  not  succeed 
ing,  owing  to  his  great  embarrassment.}  Now, 
have  you  any  new  cloths? 

VINCENT.  My  dear  sir,  I  was  not  aware  that 
you  were  at  all  interested  in  cloths. 

[Looks  around  for  a  chair,  and  goes  up  to  back  of 
room  to  get  one. 

BEAU.  He's  violent  —  he's  going  to  attack 
me. 

VINCENT.  [Bringing  down  the  chair  near  to 
BEAU.]  Yes,  there  are  some  very  fine  new  cloths. 
Now,  if  you'll  allow  me  — 

BEAU.  Certainly  not,  sir;  certainly  not. 
[Aside.]  Poor  man,  I  suppose  he  never  waited 
upon  any  one  before. 

VINCENT.    [Can  now  stand   it   no   longer,    and 


8o  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

rises.]     This  is  too  much.     Tis  outrageous.     I'll 

not  stand  it,  sir.     I  am  a  gentleman,  sir. 

BEAU.   Then  why  don't  you  behave  like  one? 

VINCENT.   I've  come  here  — 

BEAU.  Of  course,  you've  come  here,  that's 
very  evident.  You've  come  in  answer  to  my 
message,  haven't  you? 

VINCENT.  Yes,  sir,  I've  come  in  answer  to  your 
message  asking  for  my  daughter's  'and  — 

BEAU.   Your  daughter's  what  ? 

VINCENT.    My  daughter's  'and  — 

BEAU.  Your  daughter's  hand?  [It  begins  to 
dawn  upon  him.}  I  beg  your  pardon. 

VINCENT.  I  came  to  accept  your  offer  of  mar 
riage,  but  I've  altered  my  intention. 

BEAU.   Dear  me,  you  are  — 

VINCENT.   Mr.  Holiver  Vincent,  sir. 

BEAU.    [Aside.]     And   I   thought   he   was   the 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  81 

tailor!  [Aloud.]  A  thousand  apologies;  won't 
you  be  seated?  I  was  very  much  preoccupied. 
I  ask  you  a  thousand  pardons  —  but  [VINCENT 
has  begun  to  bow  and  wobble  again]  what  can  you 
expect  if  you  will  wobble  about  in  that  manner, 
my  dear  Sir  Oliver ! 

[VINCENT,  indignant,  again  is  soothed  by  title. 
VINCENT.   Not  Sir  Holiver  yet.     Mr.  Holiver 
—  Mr.  Holiver  Vincent,  at  your  service. 

BEAU.   I  only  regret  that  you  did  not  say  so 

before.  [SIMPSON   enters. 

SIMPSON.   Sir,  the  Duke  of  York  sends  word, 

will  you  be  so  gracious  as  to  take  mutton  with 

him  to-night? 

[BEAU  looks  at  VINCENT,  who  looks  pleadingly 
at    him,    as   much   as   to    say,    "Dine    with 
me." 
BEAU.  Send   my   polite   regrets   to   his   Royal 


82  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

Highness   and   say,    I    dine   to-night   with   Mr. 

Oliver  Vincent. 

[SIMPSON  exits  at  Centre  door.  BEAU  offers  his 
snujj-box  to  Vincent,  who  takes  a  pinch  and 
snuffs  it  with  a  loud,  disagreeable  noise,  which 
shocks  BEAU  unspeakably. 

THE   CURTAIN   FALLS 


THE   SECOND   ACT 

The  ballroom  at  Carlton  House,  a  large,  stately 
room  hung  in  yellow  damask  —  yellow  damask 
furniture.  On  the  Right,  a  door  leading  into 
reception  room.  On  the  Left  are  three  curtained 
recesses.  At  the  back  a  large  doorway  extends 
the  whole  width  of  room;  it  is  curtained  with 
yellow  brocade  curtains,  which  are  looped 
back,  showing  a  long  hall  hung  with  mirrors; 
it  leads  to  supper  room. 

On  the  stage,  at  rise  of  curtain,  is  the  PRINCE, 
standing  near  the  Centre,  talking  to  MRS.  ST. 
AUBYN.  THE  PRINCE  is  dressed  in  black,  with 
the  blue  ribbon  of  the  Garter;  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  in 
elaborate  evening  dress.  SHERIDAN,  the  DUCHESS 
OF  LEAMINGTON,  LADY  FARTHINGALE,  LORD 
MANLY  and  other  guests  are  standing  at  back. 
83 


84  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

PRINCE.  [A  little  impatiently,  as  though  he  had 
been  welcoming  guests  until  tired.]  Any  one  else, 
damme;  I'm  ready  to  dance. 

[Servant  enters  from  the  door  on  the  Right. 
SERVANT.   Mr.  Brummell,  Mr.  Oliver  Vincent, 
Miss  Vincent. 

[SERVANT  steps  to  one  side  of  door  as  MR. 
BRUMMELL  comes  in  with  MARIANA,  her  hand 
resting  lightly  on  his.  The  DUCHESS  then  steps 
forward  and  takes  MARIANA'S  hand.  MR. 
BRUMMELL  steps  back  to  the  side  of  VINCENT, 
who  has  followed  them  on.  The  DUCHESS  leads 
MARIANA  to  the  PRINCE.  While  this  is  going 
on,  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN,  who  has  stared  in  amaze- 
ment,  says : 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  What's  this  presentation  for ; 
does  it  mean  money  for  the  Duchess?  She  does 
not  need  it. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  85 

DUCHESS.    [As  she  presents  MARIANA.]     Your 
Royal  Highness  —  Miss  Vincent. 

[Both  curtsy  to  the  PRINCE. 
PRINCE.   This  places  me  deeper  than  ever  in 
Mr.  BrummellVdebt. 

[The  DUCHESS  and  MARIANA  back  away  and 
retire  to  the  back  of  room,  where  they  are  joined 
by  SHERIDAN.  BEAU  now  advances  to  the 
PRINCE,  closely  followed  by  VINCENT,  who  is 
greatly  excited. 

BEAU.  Sir,  I  have  the  honor  to  present  my 
friend,  Mr.  Oliver  Vincent. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  [Aside.]  It's  Mr.  Brummell 
who  is  at  the  bottom  of  this.  I  think  I  begin  to 
see. 

PRINCE.   Mr.  Vincent?    Is  this  the  Mr.  Vin 
cent,  of  the  city  ?     For,  egad,  sir,  I  am  pleased  — 
.  VINCENT.    [Greatly  embarrassed.]     Your    High- 


86  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

ness,  sir,  the  honor  is  all  mine,  ah,  all  mine,  Your 

Highness,  thank  you  for  your  cordiality,  Your 

Highness. 

[Offers    the    PRINCE    Us  hand.     BEAU   quietly 
throws  it  up,  and  motions  VINCENT  away  to 
the  back,  covering  his  retreat,  as  it  were,  by  his 
own  self-possession  and  the  look  of  humorous 
appeal  which  he  gives  to  the  PRINCE. 
MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.   Your  Royal  Highness,  what 
does  Beau  mean?     Really,  sir,  I  think  you  take 
too  much  from  him.     They  are  from  the  city, 
these  Vincents ;  you  can  see  its  dust  on  their  feet. 
PRINCE.    [Chuckling    at    his    own    wit.]    Yes, 
damme,  madam;  but  it's  gold  dust. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  [With  a  slight  smile,  such  as 
an  offended  goddess  might  give.}  Pray,  sir,  let 
us  have  the  dance  now. 

[The  PRINCE  offers  her  his  hand  and  they  take 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  87 

their  places  at  the  head  of  the  set.     SHERIDAN 
leads  tJie  DUCHESS  to  one  side.    LORD  MANLY 
leads  LADY  FARTHINGALE  to  the  other. 
BEAU.    [To  MARIANA.]     May  I  have  the  de 
light  of  leading  you  out  in  the  dance  ? 

MARIANA.  I  fear,  Mr.  Brummell,  you  will  find 
me  but  a  poor  dancer. 

BEAU.  I  know  you  dance  well,  or  I  should  not 
have  asked  you.  I  have  watched  you.  One 
must  always  judge  for  oneself. 

[He  leads  MARIANA   to  the   head,   opposite  the 
PRINCE.     They  dance  an  old-fashioned  quad 
rille,  the  end  of  which  is  a  deep  curtsy  from 
the  ladies  and  a    bow  from   the   men.     The 
PRINCE  then  goes  up  to  Centre  door,  and  out 
through  the  hall  with  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN. 
PRINCE.   Egad!     Poor    Beau!     Your    charms 
have  made  me  false  to  my  friend. 


88  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.   Ah!   But  I  fear  Your  Royal 
Highness  is  fickle,  and  may  be  false  to  me,  too. 

PRINCE.  Zounds  !    I  could  only  be  that  by  being 
false  to  myself. 

[They  are  now  out  of  sight.     The  DUCHESS  has 
joined  BEAU  and  MARIANA,  LADY  FARTHIN 
GALE   and   LORD   MANLY.      The   latter   cou 
ple    now   curtsy   and    bow   and   exit   through 
Centre  door,  and  go  down  the  hall. 
DUCHESS.   I   really   think  it  gives  one  more 
eclat  to  dance  with  Mr.  Brummell  than  to  dance 
with  the  Prince. 

BEAU.  [Quite  sincerely. [  I  really  think  it  does. 
[The  DUCHESS  and  MR.  SHERIDAN  then  bow, 
and  also  go  out  at  Centre  door,  meeting  VIN 
CENT,  who  bows  to  them  in  a  most  exaggerated 
way  and  then  comes  down  toward  the  BEAU 
and  MARIANA.  BEAU  bows  in  courtly  fashion 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  89 

and   also   goes   out   through   Centre   door,  so 
VINCENT    and     MARIANA    are     left     alone. 
MARIANA   is   a   charming   type   of  a   young 
English  girl,  dressed  in  white,  her  hair  in  soft 
ringlets,  with  a  wreath  of  tiny  rosebuds. 
VINCENT.   This  is  the  proudest  moment  of  my 
life  !    He  had  heard  of  me ;   he  recognized  me  at 
once,  Mariana. 

MARIANA.    [Quizzically.]     Of  course,  papa,  he 

•  had  read  your  name  on  his  buttons. 

VINCENT.  You  are  mistaken,  my  dear;  I 
am  not  a  tailor,  I  am  a  cloth  merchant.  Did 

*  you  notice  how  cordial  His  Royal  Highness  was? 
[Regretfully.}     I  was  too  stiff  with  him,  much  too 
stiff,  but  Mr.  Brummell  would  have  it  so. 

MARIANA.  [Still  trying  to  make  a  jest  of  it.} 
Quite  right,  papa ;  you  needed  your  dignity  and 
His  Royal  Highness  did  not. 


90  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

VINCENT.  Think,  Mariana,  what  a  difference  to 
day  from  yesterday.  Yesterday,  I  was  Vincent, 
of  the  City  —  to-night,  I  am  Vincent,  of  the 
Court.  It  is  a  proud  position,  my  dear ;  think 
of  it,  Holiver  Vincent,  the  Prince's  friend !  No 
more  "The  Hoak,  the  Hash,  and  the  Bonny 
Hivy  Tree."  No  more  "A  Weary  Lot  Is  Thine, 
Fair  Maid."  [Imitates  the  playing  of  a  piano.] 
No  more  going  to  sleep  after  dinner.  No,  my 
dear,  we'll  read  our  names  every  morning,  sev-  • 
era!  times  over,  in  the  Court  Journal.  It'll 
be  a  staggerer  for  your  Aunt  Jane  at  'Ounds- 
ditch. 

MARIANA.  [Sadly.]  I  think,  for  my  part,  we 
are  very  well  as  we  are,  and  very  happy.  And  I 
like  the  old  songs,  and  I  like  my  old  father  just 
as  he  is. 

VINCENT.   Pooh !     My  child,  I  am  ambitious, 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  91 

and,  if  you  marry  the  Beau,  in  a  year  from  now,  I 
may  wear  a  coronet  —  a  coronet. 

[Makes  a  gesture  as  though  placing  a  coronet 
on  his  head. 

MARIANA.   Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a 

crown,  papa,  and  how  much  are  you  going  to 

give  for  the   coronet?     Anybody  can  buy  one 

nowadays.     Give  your  money  for  it,  by  all  means 

—  but  not  your  daughter's  happiness. 

[Crossing  and  going  up  toward  Centre  as  though 
to  end  the  discussion. 

VINCENT.  [Follows  her  and  speaks  pleadingly.] 
Mariana,  I  have  been  a  kind  father  to  you.  My 
heart  is  set  upon  the  accomplishment  of  this  thing. 
You  have  ever  been  a  dutiful  child. 

MARIANA.  [Turning  quickly.]  And  you  shall 
ever  find  me  so.  But  I  hold,  papa,  that  a  wom 
an's  heart  alone  should  guide  a  woman's  choice. 


92  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

VINCENT.    [Turns  away  vexed.]     Yes,  I  know  - 
but- 

MARIANA.  Still,  my  affection  for  you  shall 
largely  influence  my  decision.  Go,  my  ambitious 
father.  [Goes  to  him  and  puts  Jier  hand  on  his 
shoulders.]  I  will  see  what  I  can  do  to  win  the 
coronet  for  your  head. 

VINCENT.  [Delightedly  kisses  her  forehead.] 
That's  a  good  child. 

[He  goes  up  and  out  through  Centre  door. 

MARIANA.  If  I  can  only  tear  the  arrow  from 
my  heart.  [Walks  slowly  up  and  down.}  No 
dream  of  greatness,  no  wish  even  of  my  father's, 
should  for  one  instant  weaken  my  devotion  to 
Reginald  if  I  could  believe  him  true  to  me.  But 
he  has  ceased  to  write;  I  hear  of  him  only  in 
social  dissipation.  He  is  gay  and  merry,  and 
Mariana  is  forgotten.  Since  I  cannot  be  happy, 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  93 

there  is  only  my  dear  old  father  to  be  pleased. 
And  yet  —  and  yet  — 

[Starts  and  turns  as  BEAU,  the  DUCHESS  and 
MR.  VINCENT  enter  from  the  Centre  door. 

DUCHESS.  [.4s  she  comes  gaily  down.]  Ma 
mie,  you  are  very  fortunate,  I  vow  —  you  will 
be  the  talk  of  the  town  to-morrow  —  to  have 
pirouetted  with  our  Beau  here.  Tis  no  small 
favor,  I  assure  you  —  and  one  his  Beauship  has 
never  yet  bestowed  upon  his  doting  Duchess  — 
you  naughty,  naughty  Beau  !  [Shakes  her  fan  at 
BEAU.]  And  I  must  say,  ma  mie,  you  comported 
yourself  right  well,  right  limber  and  nimbly  for  a 
debutante.  Though  I  am  no  bad  executante  on 
the  tips  of  my  toes  myself,  i'  faith. 

[Gives  a  little  pas  seul. 

BEAU.    [Putting  up  glasses  and  looking  at  her 
critically.}     Ah,  Duchess,  all  you  need  is  a  ballet 


94  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

skirt  and  a  tambourine.  But,  egad,  we  forgot 
the  Prince  —  the  Merchant  Prince  —  we  have 
just  left  the  title  !  Permit  me,  my  dear  Duchess, 
to  present  to  you  the  money.  Mr.  Oliver  Vincent 
-  Her  Grace,  the  Duchess  of  Leamington. 

DUCHESS.  [As  she  curtsies  to  VINCENT,  who  bows 
very  low.}  Deuce  take  me,  Mr.  Brummell,  have  you 
ever  known  me  to  refuse  a  presentation  to  money? 

BEAU.  No,  my  dear  Duchess,  and  I  have 
known  you  to  become  very  familiar  with  it  at 
the  card-table  without  even  a  formal  introduction. 

DUCHESS.   Beau,  I  vow  you're  a  brute. 

[She  crosses  to  VINCENT  and  tltey  go  up  a  little. 

BEAU.  [Crossing  to  MARIANA.]  You  hear  that, 
Mariana.  I  am  a  brute,  'tis  true,  and  I  am  look 
ing  forward  to  a  conjunction  of  Beauty  and  the 
Beast.  [Turning  to  the  DUCHESS.]  Duchess, 
shall  Sir  Money  conduct  you  to  the  card-room? 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  95 

DUCHESS.  [Smiling  at  VINCENT.]  With  pleas 
ure,  if  he'll  stay  there  with  me. 

BEAU.  No  fear  of  that,  for  your  Grace  is  sure 
to  put  him  in  your  pocket. 

DUCHESS.   Incorrigible !     Come,  Mr.  Vincent, 

your  arm,  your  arm ;    'fore  Gad,  we  are  routed. 

[Takes  VINCENT'S  arm;  they  turn  to  go. 

BEAU.  [Stopping  them.]  One  moment,  my 
dear  Vincent.  [BEAU  bows  to  DUCHESS,  who  joins 
MARIANA,  and  they  stand  talking,  while  BEAU 
speaks  to  VINCENT.]  My  valet  has  neglected 
placing  my  purse  in  my  pocket,  and  I  am  going 
to  allow  you  the  privilege  of  lending  me  five  hun 
dred  guineas  before  you  run  away  with  the 
Duchess. 

VINCENT.  [Heartily.]  Certainly,  my  dear  Mr. 
Brummell,  certainly,  sir,  take  ten  — 

[Puts  his  hand  in  his  pocket. 


96  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

BEAU.  [With  a  look  of  horror.]  Not  here,  my 
good  sir,  not  here  —  in  the  card-room. 

VINCENT.  [Going  up  to  the  DUCHESS.!  My 
arm,  madam,  my  purse  and  myself  are  entirely 
at  your  service. 

DUCHESS.  [Taking  his  arm.}  I  only  need  one 
of  them ;  but  come,  come,  I  see  you  are  quite 
a  courtier.  Au  revoir,  Beau.  [To  MARIANA,  as 
she  waves  a  kiss.]  Ma  chere  ! 

[Ciirtsies  to  the  BEAU,  waves  her  hand  airily  to 
MARIANA,  and  goes  of  with  VINCENT. 

BEAU.  Your  most  humble  and  devoted  slave, 
Duchess. 

MARIANA.  You  do  not  follow  the  cards,  Mr. 
Brummell? 

BEAU.   They  are  too  fickle;   I  am  always  un 
lucky. 
.  MARIANA.   Unlucky  at  cards,  lucky  in  love  — 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  97 

[Stops  abruptly,  vexed  that  she  has  mentioned  the 
word"  love." 

BEAU.   That  is  why  I  am  here. 

MARIANA.   [.4   little  coquettishly.]     Well,  what 
sort  of  a  hand  shall  I  deal  you  ? 

BEAU.    [With  great  meaning.]     Yours  ! 

MARIANA.    [With    equal    meaning.]     Are    dia 
monds  trumps  ? 

BEAU.    [Reproachfully.]     No.     Hearts! 

MARIANA.    [Lightly.]     I    haven't    one    in    the 
pack. 

BEAU.    Nay,  but  you  deal  your  cards  badly. 

MARIANA.   That    is    because    I    have    chosen 
Nature,  not  Art,  to  be  my  mistress. 

BEAU.   By  my  manners  !     I've  a  mind  to  bring 
Dame  Nature  into  fashion  again. 

MARIANA.   Then    there's   not   a   woman   here 
could  show  her  face. 


98  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

BEAU.  But  you.  And  if  you  would  deign  to 
be  seen  always  on  my  arm  — 

MARIANA.  Mercy  !  Mr.  Brummell,  I  fear  you 
would  wear  me  as  you  do  your  coat,  and  throw 
me  aside  when  I'm  wrinkled. 

BEAU.  [With  a  shudder.]  Don't  mention 
wrinkles ;  they  give  me  the  jaundice. 

MARIANA.  [Seriously.]  I  cannot  but  remember 
that  only  one  short  week  ago  every  bench  in  the 
Mall,  every  lady's  tea-table,  every  entr'acte  of  the 
play  was  the  occasion  for  reportings  of  Mr.  Brum- 
mell's  fancy  for  the  Honorable  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn. 

BEAU.  You  cannot  imagine  I  have  not  favored 
some  woman  more  than  others.  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn 
was  clever  and  amused  me.  We  passed  our  time 
in  laughter,  not  in  loving. 

[MRS.  ST.  AUBYN,  who  has  entered  at  back, 
hears  this  last  remark. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  99 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.    I  fear  I  am  malapropos,  but 
I  will  be  deaf  and  blind. 

[She  comes  down  the  Centre,  while   VINCENT, 
SHERIDAN,    LADY    FARTHINGALE     and    the 
DUCHESS  enter  also  at  Centre  door. 
MARIANA.   It   would  be  a    pity,    madam,    to 
destroy  two  faculties  which  serve  you  to  such 
good  purpose. 

[Crosses  and  passes  MRS.   ST.    AUBYN  with  a 

slight  bend  of  her  head,  and  joins  VINCENT. 
BEAU.   Oh,  that's  very  good.     [To  MRS.  ST. 
AUBYN,  as  he  crosses  to  her.]     Don't  you  think 
that's  very  good  ? 

[They  stand  together,  apparently  talking,  MRS. 

ST.  AUBYN  very  angrily. 

VINCENT.  [To  MARIANA.]  A  most  bewitching 
woman  that,  but  I'm  sorry  she  would  insist  upon 
hunting  Mr.  Brummell,  for  I  knew  you  wouldn't 


ioo  'BEAU   BRUMMELL 

want  to  be  interrupted.     I  did  all  I  could  with 
'politeness.     I  took  her  to  every  other  room  before 
this. 

[MARIANA  and  VINCENT  go  out  at  Centre  door, 
as  LORD  MANLY  comes  rushing  on,  almost 
running  into  them. 

LORD  MANLY.  [He  is  a  fop  of  the  period,  and 
quite  a  little  the  worse  for  drink.]  My  dear  Beau  ! 
My  dear  Beau !  [A  little  louder.  BEAU  pays 
no  attention  to  him.]  My  dear  Beau ! !  [Still 
louder.  BEAU  finally  looks  at  him.]  Lord  Crawl- 
ings  is  cheating  at  the  card-table.  It  is  a 
fact !  He  has  cards  up  his  sleeve.  What  shall 
I  do? 

BEAU.   Cheating  at  the  card- table? 

LORD  MANLY.   Yes ;  he  has  cards  up  his  sleeve. 

BEAU.    [Thoughtfully.]     Cards  up  his  sleeve  ! 

LORD  MANLY.   Yes.    'What  shall  I  do? 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  101 

BEAU.  Well,  if  he  has  cards  up  his  sleeve,  bet 
on  him. 

LORD  MANLY.  [With  a  blank  stare.}  Oh- 
thank  you. 

[He  joins  LADY  FARTHINGALE  and  offers  her  a 
chair,  which  she  refusing,  they  stand  conversing 
with  other  guests. 

LADY  FARTHINGALE.  If  Mr.  Brummell  marries 
Miss  Vincent,  he'll  have  no  more  difficulty  in 
paying  for  his  clothes,  though  I  hear  he's  sadly 
in  debt  now. 

SHERIDAN.  Poor  Beau  !  He  will  never  be  able 
to  forget  the  old  gentleman's  cloth;  it  will  be 
like  riding  to  wealth  on  a  clothes-horse. 

DUCHESS.  [Who  has  been  looking  down  the  hall.] 
Lord,  Mr.  Sheridan !  They  are  starting  for  sup 
per.  You  can  do  as  you  please,  but  I  want  an 
oyster. 


I02  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

[SHERIDAN  and  DUCHESS  go  of  at  Centre  door, 
followed  by  LADY  FARTHINGALE,  LORD  MANLY 
and  other  guests. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.    [To  BEAU,  who  was  starting 
to  go.]     I  insist  upon  a  few  words  with  you. 
BEAU.   Your  wishes  are  my  commands. 
[He  is  now  standing  in  the  door,  Centre,  so  he 
can  look  down  the  hall.     MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  is 
walking  angrily  back  and  forth. 
MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.   I  found  myself  quite  de  trop 
when  I  entered  the  room  a  few  minutes  ago. 
BEAU.   You  speak  of  impossibilities. 
MRS.   ST.   AUBYN.   Pray,   spare  me;    I  over 
heard  your  last  speech. 

BEAU.   You  mean  you  listened  to  what  I  said. 
MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.   Well,  if  I  did  —  I  begin  to 
see  through  you  now. 
BEAU.   Happy  me ! 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  103 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Did  you  think  me  blind 
when  you  presented  these  Vincents  to  the  Prince  ? 

BEAU.  [Bowing  to  some  imaginary  guests  down 
the  hall]  How  do  you  do?  Who  could  think 
those  eyes  blind? 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  You  presented  me  to  the 
Prince,  not  for  my  own  sake,  but  for  yours. 
'Twas  a  pleasant  way  to  be  rid  of  me. 

BEAU.  No  way  with  such  a  destination  could 
possibly  be  pleasant. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  You  have  puffed  the  Prince 
with  the  conceit  that  he  is  driving  you  out  of  my 
affections,  against  your  will.  Suppose  he  were 
to  know  the  truth  ? 

BEAU.  Royal  personages  are  so  rarely  told  the 
truth  that  if  he  did  hear  it  he  would  not  recognize 
it.  How  do  you  do  ! 

[Again  bowing  to  some  imaginary  person. 


104  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  What  would  become  of  his 
friendship  for  you,  do  you  think,  and  what  would 
you  do  without  it? 

BEAU.   He  would  have  my  sincere  sympathy. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Suppose  I  were  to  inform 
him? 

BEAU.  [Again  bowing.]  How  do  you  do,  my 
dear  Lady  Betty ;  how  do  you  do  ?  Yes,  pres 
ently  —  with  great  pleasure  —  h'm.  [Turning 
and  apparently  paying  attention  to  MRS.  ST. 
AUBYN  for  the  first  time.}  My  dear  Horatia 
would  not  be  so  foolish  as  to  ruin  herself.  Would 
the  Prince,  do  you  think,  still  care  for  you  if  he 
thought  I  no  longer  admired  you?  He  affects 
you  now  for  the  same  reason  he  wears  my  coats, 
because  I  have  made  you  as  I  made  them  —  the 
Fashion. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.   [Triumphantly]    But  there's 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  105 

something  that  binds  one  faster  to  a  man  than  the 
button  of  a  coat.  There  is,  my  dear  Beau,  such 
a  thing  as  marriage. 

BEAU.  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure !  There,  my  dear 
madam,  I  bow  to  your  vast  experience  [MRS. 
ST.  AUBYN  makes  an  impatient  movement],  but, 
when  it  comes  to  a  question  of  the  Prince's  wed 
ding  coat,  I  fear  you  will  find  the  buttons  are  sewed 
on  with  a  very  light  thread. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  There  you  are  wrong.  You 
seem  to  forget,  my  dear  Beau,  that  the  Prince 
already  dotes  on  me.  'We  are  both  playing  a 
little  game  —  you  and  I  —  but  I  am  persuaded 
I  shall  win,  for  I  stake  on  a  heart. 

[Sweeps  past  BEAU  with  a  superb  gesture,  toward 
the  Left. 

BEAU.  [Very  quietly.}  Your  fortune  will  turn, 
for  you  stake  on  a  knave. 


io6  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  What  will  take  my  knave 
when  the  king  is  out  of  the  pack  ? 

BEAU.  Why,  then,  I  think  a  queen  might 
turn  up. 

[Before  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  can  crush  him  with 
the  reply  that  is  on  her  lips,  VINCENT  enters. 

VINCENT.  Ah,  'ere  you  are,  my  dear  Mr. 
Brummell ;  you  are  losing  your  supper,  and  Mrs. 
St.  Aubyn,  too,  is  depriving  the  feast  of  its  most 
brilliant  hornament. 

BEAU.  Yes,  truly,  it  is  too  selfish  of  Mrs.  St. 
Aubyn.  Mr.  Vincent,  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  must 
permit  you  to  conduct  her  to  the  supper- 
room. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  [Sarcastically.]  Surely,  Mr. 
Vincent  did  not  do  me  the  honor  of  leaving  the 
table  to  search  me  out. 

VINCENT.    '  Fore  Gad,  madam,  though  I  did  see 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  107 

a  vacant  seat  next  His  Royal  Highness,  in  truth 
I  came  to  look  for  my  daughter. 

BEAU.  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  will  hardly  permit  the 
chair  which  awaits  her  next  to  the  Prince  to  re 
main  vacant.  [Takes  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN'S  hand  and 
hands  her  with  great  empressement  to  VINCENT.] 
Meanwhile,  Mr.  Vincent,  I  will  go  through  the 
rooms  for  your  daughter. 

[MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  stops,  gives  BEAU  a  look,  is 
about  to  make  a  scene,  then  thinks  better  of  it, 
and  lets  VINCENT  lead  Jier  from  the  room. 

BEAU.  You  amused  me  once,  but  you  do  so  no 
longer.  No,  you're  clever;  yes,  you  are  clever, 
and  you  dress  to  perfection,  but  Mariana  has 
all  your  charms  and  more  —  a  heart !  Horatia 
St.  Aubyn,  your  day  in  the  world  is  waning; 
Mariana's  reign  begins.  I  will  go  and  inform  her 
so.  She  cannot  be  insensible  to  my  regard,,  to 


io8  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

my  love,  for,  strange  to  say,  I  begin  to  think  I  do 
love  her.  Yes,  I  believe  I  do.  [Quite  seriously.} 
And  I  think  I  love  her  madly  —  yes,  I  do,  I  love 
her  madly. 

[Stands  for  a  moment  in  deep  thought;  then  walks 

slowly  of  through  Centre  door  down  the  hall. 

MARIANA  enters  from  door  down  Right  from 

'  reception  room.     She  has  a  note  in  her  hand. 

MARIANA.    Kathleen  has  conveyed  to  me  my 

own  letter  to  Reginald  unopened.     She  says  he 

has  left  his  lodgings,  and  his  landlady  does  not 

know  when  he  will  return.     I  am  afraid  men  are 

not  what  they  are  represented  to  be. 

[Sits  down  in  chair  near  the  door  at  Right.    LORD 
MANLY   comes   on   through  hall  and  Centre 
door.     He  is  slightly  intoxicated. 
LORD   MANLY.   Ah !    Miss   Vincent !       What 
happiness. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  109 

MARIANA.    [Annoyed.]     Here's  another ! 

LORD  MANLY.  Won't  you  drink  something? 
I  mean  eat  something? 

MARIANA.  [Not  looking  at  him.]  Thank  you, 
I  care  for  nothing !  There  can  be  no  mistake ; 
Kathleen  vowed  she  delivered  the  letters. 

LORD  MANLY.  You  won't  eat,  and  you  won't 
drink  —  most  'straordinary  !  What  will  you  do  ? 

MARIANA.  I  will  dispense  with  your  society, 
sir.  [As  she  rises,  she  looks  at  him.]  I  do  believe 
he  is  intoxicated. 

LORD  MANLY.  She's  coy!  She's  coy!  No, 
fair  creature,  I  have  follolled  —  follolled  —  I 
have  follolled  —  most  'straordinary  I  can't  say 
follolled  —  I  have  follolled  you  from  room  to 
room  to  find  you. 

MARIANA.  And,  having  found  me,  you  may 
leave  me,  sir ! 


no  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

LORD  MANLY.  Leave  you  !  Never  !  Never  will 
I  stir  from  this  sacred  spot.  [In  his  endeavor  to 
stand  quite  still,  he  staggers  and  almost  falls  over.] 
I  mean  the  sacred  spot  where  you  are.  Miss 
Vincent,  I  adore  you !  Fact.  All  you  do,  I  see 
through  rosy-colored  glasses. 

MARIANA.  Wine-colored  glasses  you  mean,  sir. 
Let  me  pass ! 

LORD  MANLY.  No,  fair  tantalizer.  [Nods  his 
head  with  great  satisfaction.]  Good  word  —  tan 
talizer.  I  will  speak ;  my  heart  is  full. 

MARIANA.  There  can  be  no  doubt  about  the 
fulness. 

LORD  MANLY.   Here    on  my  knees   [looks  at 
knees]  —  egad,  look  at  my  knees.     I  have  four 
knees  instead  of  two  knees  —  but,  no  matter  — 
here  on  all  my  knees  [kneels,  almost  falling]  I  will 
pour  out  — 


BEAU   BRUMMELL  m 

MARIANA.   More  liquor,  sir  !    You  do  not  need 
it. 

LORD  MANLY.  You  cannot  ignore  me,  my  love, 
my  passion,  my  adorashion  —  I  mean  adoration  — 
Miss  Vincent  —  I  - 

[BEAU  has  come  on  through  Centre  door.     Un- 
perceived,  he  comes  down,  takes  LORD  MANLY 
by  the  ear,  making  him  rise  and  stagger  back. 
BEAU.    My    dear    Miss    Vincent,    how    unfor 
tunately  unconventional. 

LORD  MANLY.  Mr.  Brummell,  sir,  you  are  no 
gentleman. 

BEAU.   My  good  fellow,  you  are  no  judge. 
LORD  MANLY.    My  honor,  sir,  my  honor  ! 
BEAU.    Fiddlesticks!     Come,  trot    away,   trot 
away.     You  may  apologize  to  Miss  Vincent  to 
morrow. 
LORD  MANLY.   You  apologize  to  me  now,  sir. 


II2  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

BEAU.  I  never  had  occasion  to  do  such  a  thing 
in  my  life.  [Walks  up  and  looks  of  down  the  hall] 
Now  trot  away;  I  think  I  see  the  Prince  ap 
proaching. 

LORD  MANLY.  Proach  aprincing !  --I  mean 
Prince  approaching.  Miss  Vincent,  it  is  with 
deep  regret  I  say  adieu ! 

[He  stumbles  to  door  at  -Right  and  goes  of. 

BEAU.  [Coming  down  and  offering  MARIANA  a 
chair.  She  sits.]  I  heartily  congratulate  you, 
my  dear  Miss  Vincent,  on  having  escaped  a  scene. 
Nothing  but  the  regard  I  bear  you  could  have 
persuaded  me  to  so  nearly  incur  a  possible  fracas. 
Lord  Manly  was  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  his 
mouth,  and  he  has  thought  it  necessary  to  keep 
that  spoon  full  ever  since.  But  now  that  we 
have  found  one  another,  may  I  not  be  permitted 
to  continue  the  conversation  where  it  was  broken 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  113 

off  ?  I  desire  to  speak  with  you  seriously.  I  wish 
to  make  a  confession.  I  want  to  tell  you  what 
perhaps  you  know  —  when  I  first  sought  your 
hand,  I  did  not  bring  my  heart.  I  admired  you, 
'tis  true,  but  I  did  not  love  you  —  not  then  — 
not  madly !  I  was  —  I  am  so  deeply  in  debt, 
so  hemmed  in  by  my  creditors,  so  hard  pressed  on 
every  side,  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  do  some 
thing  to  find  the  wherewithal  to  satisfy  their  just 
demands,  or  sink  under  my  misfortunes  and  give 
up  forever  the  life  of  the  world  which  had  become 
my  very  breath  and  being.  The  one  means  at 
my  disposal  to  free  myself  from  my  difficulties 
was  a  marriage.  I  knew  your  fortune  and  I 
sought  you  out.  The  admiration  I  entertained 
for  you  the  first  few  days  deepened  into  esteem, 
and  finally  expanded  into  love  —  mad  love ! 
That  is  why  I  have  rehearsed  this  to  you.  At 


ii4  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

first  it  was  your  fortune  which  allured  me  —  but 

now  it  is  yourself ! 

MARIANA.   Mr.  Brummell ! 

BEAU.  Yet,  were  you  penniless,  I  would  not 
wed  you. 

MARIANA.  [Rising  in  astonishment.}  Mr. 
Brummell ! 

BEAU.  Because  I  would  not  drag  you  down  to 
share  this  miserable,  uncertain  lot  of  mine.  No ! 
I  would  seek  you  once  to  tell  you  of  my  love,  and 
then  step  aside  out  of  your  path,  and  never  cross 
it  again.  I  would  not  willingly,  purposely  en 
compass  your  unhappiness. 

MARIANA.    [Slowly.]     I  begin  to  believe  in  you. 

BEAU.  I  remember  no  other  word  that  you 
have  spoken.  May  I  have  the  delight  of  pres 
sing  my  very  unworthy  lips  to  your  very  dear 
hand? 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  115 

[MARIANA  is  about  to  give  BEAU  her  hand; 
then  suddenly  withdraws  it. 

MARIANA.  I  think,  Mr.  Brummell,  I  would 
rather  you  did  not. 

BEAU.  [Thoughtfully.]  I  believe  you  are  right. 
Yes,  I  am  quite  sure  you  are !  Thank  you. 
You  have  saved  me  from  doing  something  very 
commonplace. 

MARIANA.   You  are  not  angry,  sir? 

BEAU.  I  believe  it  is  exactly  fifteen  years  since 
I  last  lost  my  temper  —  but,  Mariana,  I  still 
await  your  answer.  It  is  a  new  sensation  for 
Brummell  to  be  kept  waiting. 

MARIANA.  Will  you  leave  me,  sir,  to  consider 
my  decision?  I  pray  you,  Mr.  Brummell,  give 
me  a  few  moments  here  —  alone. 

[She  motions  toward  recess  farthest  down  stage, 
and  crosses  toward  it. 


n6  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

BEAU.  I  would  refuse  you  nothing.  I  will 
await  your  pleasure  in  this  other  recess,  and  seek 
you  here  in  five  slow  minutes. 

[He  motions  toward  the  recess,  the  farthest  up 
stage,  and  with  a  low  bow  to  MARIANA  goes  in 
and  draws  the  curtain. 

MARIANA.  [Holding  the  curtain  which  closes 
the  recess  where  she  is  standing.}  I  cannot  bring 
myself  to  say  yes  to  him,  although  a  certain 
sympathy  pleads  in  his  behalf,  and  joins  with 
pride  to  prompt  me  against  Reginald,  who  has 
neglected  me.  Why  has  he  not  replied  to  my 
letters?  Tis  very  soon  to  be  forgotten!  Oh, 
Reginald,  to  be  absent  when  most  I  needed  you  ! 
You  are  no  better  than  the  men  of  the  world. 
Father  is  right.  Mr.  Brummell  shall  have  his 
answer.  [The  PRINCE  and  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN 
enter  at  Centre  door,  so  much  engrossed  in  each 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  117 

other  that  they  do  not  see  MARIANA.]  Oh, 
how  provoking ! 

[MARIANA  hides  in  recess  and  draws  the  curtain. 

BEAU.  [Who  has  also  looked  out  at  that  moment.] 
How  very  annoying !  I  shall  have  to  play 
Patience  on  a  window-seat,  and  wait. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.    Yes.     I  must  own  to  you, 

my  sentiments  toward  Mr.  Brummell  are  greatly 

altered.     Until  I  met  you  —  can  you  believe  it  ? 

- 1  positively  thought  him  a  man  of  some  parts. 

BEAU.    [From  the  window.]     Really,  really  ! 

PRINCE.  Goddess!  Of  course,  he  has  been 
much  with  me,  and  naturally  smacks  somewhat 
of  my  wit. 

BEAU.   Ah,  that's  very  good !    Very  good ! 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  But  only  as  a  false  echo  does, 
for  he  has  none  of  your  delicate  pleasantry. 

BEAU.   No,  thank  goodness,  I  haven't. 


nS  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  He  mimics  you  in  dress,  in 
everything,  but,  then,  you  know,  he  never  had 
your  figure. 

[The  PRINCE  and  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  go  toward 
middle  recess  and  seat  themselves. 

BEAU.   Heaven  forbid ! 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.   He  really  has  no  taste. 

PRINCE.  He  showed  that  when  he  chose  Miss 
Vincent  for  his  marked  attention. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  And  do  you  think  so,  too? 
Why,  I  know  Miss  Vincent  is  an  insignificant 
little  thing,  whose  name  has  never  been  associated 
with  any  gentleman  of  quality,  but,  though  with 
out  mind  or  manners,  she  has  money,  sir.  She 
dresses  like  a  guy,  but  her  clothes,  like  the  clouds, 
have  silver  lining. 

MARIANA.  [With  a  hasty  look  out  of  the  curtain.] 
I  wish  I  could  escape  by  the  window. 


BEAU   BRUMMELL  119 

BEAU.  I've  half  a  mind  to  crawl  out  of  the 
window,  but  I  might  be  observed.  There's  no 
resource  but  to  try  to  go  asleep. 

PRINCE.   You  are  a  flatterer  and  a  coquette. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  No ;  only  a  woman  —  and 
under  a  spell. 

PRINCE.  Damme,  that  sounds  very  fine.  I 
should  like  — 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.   Well? 

PRINCE.  I  should  like  to  be  one  of  those  little 
words  that  kiss  your  lips  and  die. 

BEAU.   One  of  my  pet  speeches  —  number  five. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Beware,  sir,  let  me  warn  you 
—  remember,  I  have  been  married  once  already. 

PRINCE.  'Fore  Gad,  madam,  I  wish  that  you 
would  marry  twice. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Never !  Now  !  To  be  sure, 
I  once  thought  there  was  something  like  love 


120  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

engendered  in  me  by  Mr.  Brummell,  but  now  I 

know  it  was  not  real  love ;  it  was  only  a  shadow. 

PRINCE.   Why  do  you  think  that? 

[At  this  moment  VINCENT  enters  from  the  Centre 
door.  All  the  curtains  of  the  different  windows 
are  drawn  so  he  can  see  no  one. 

VINCENT.  I  cannot  keep  away  any  longer; 
she's  been  sensible  and  accepted  him,  or  they'd 
have  been  gone  long  before  this.  [MRS.  ST. 
AUBYN  moves  the  curtain  a  little,  with  a  slight  ex- 
clamation.]  There  they  are  in  the  recess  behind 
the  curtain.  Oh,  he's  clever  —  Mr.  Brummell  — 
very  clever. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  I  tremble  to  acknowledge, 
even  to  myself,  the  dictates  of  my  own  heart. 
Ah,  sir,  I  conceive  you  know  only  too  well  who 
reigns  there  now. 

VINCENT.    [Who    apparently    cannot    hear.]     I 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  121 

should  just  like  to  hear  a  word  to  see  how  the  great 
Mr.  Brummell  makes  love.  I  wonder  would  it 
be  wrong  now  to  listen  a  bit?  Why  should  it 
be  —  am  I  not  her  father  ?  It's  my  duty,  and  I 
will.  [Comes  further  down  and  listens. 

PRINCE.  Siren !  You  make  me  drunk  with 
joy! 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  No ;  let  me  recover  myself. 
You  have  bewitched  me,  sir.  I  must  resist  your 
fascinations,  and  not  forget  the  difference  in  our 
rank.  Fashion  would  condemn  me. 

PRINCE.   Damn  Fashion ! 

VINCENT.  Oh!  Mr.  Brummell  a-damning 
Fashion.  How  he  loves  her  !  How  he  loves  her  ! 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Ah !  sir,  we  women  are  so 
frail,  so  easily  beguiled  ! 

PRINCE.  [Falling  on  his  knees.}  By  Heaven,  I 
will  not  lose  you ! 


I22  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

VINCENT.  [Joyfully.]  He's  on  his  knees! 
He's  on  his  knees  ! 

PRINCE.  Superb !  sumptuous !  beautiful  wo- 

[Kisses  her  hand. 


man! 


VINCENT.   He's  kissing  her  !    He's  kissing  her  ! 

PRINCE.   I  swear  I  will  marry  you ! 

VINCENT.  [Who  can  restrain  himself  no  longer, 
rushes  forward  and  draws  curtain  aside.}  And  so 
you  shall!  Bless  you,  my  — [Sees  the  PRINCE 
and  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Falls  back.}  Oh,  Lord  ! 

The  Prince ! 

[All  guests  enter  at  Centre  door. 

PRINCE.  [Rising,  indignantly.]  What  do  you 
mean,  sir  ?  Confound  your  damned  impudence  ! 
Will  some  one  show  this  gentleman  - 

BEAU.  [Who  has  come  slowly  down]  Oh,  take 
his  blessing ;  it  won't  hurt  you. 

PRINCE.   Damn  his  blessing  ! 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  123 

BEAU.  Be  composed,  my  dear  Wales,  or  you'll 
make  a  fool  of  yourself. 

PRINCE.  [Too  exasperated  to  take  from  BEAU 
what  he  usually  thinks  all  right.}  Oh,  I  am  tired 
of  your  deuced  impertinence,  too,  Beau.  Step 
aside,  step  aside ! 

BEAU.  [Slowly  handing  his  snuff-box  to  the 
PRINCE.]  My  dear  Wales,  first  you  lose  your 
equilibrium,  and  now  you  lose  your  temper. 
Take  a  little  snuff. 

PRINCE.    Damn  your  snuff ! 

[Knocks  snuff-box  out  of  BEAU'S  hand. 

BEAU.  [Puts  up  his  glass  and  looks  quietly  at 
him.]  Very  bad  manners,  very  bad.  I  shall 
have  to  order  my  carriage.  Wales,  will  you 
ring  the  bell? 

[Everybody  is   aghast   at   BEAU'S   daring.     The 
PRINCE  stands  petrified.     BEAU  holds  out  his 


124  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

hand  to  MARIANA,  who  has  been  standing  in 
the  recess,  half  fainting.  She  comes  forward, 
bows  low  to  the  PRINCE,  and  backs  to  the  door, 
followed  by  her  father,  who  is  pitifully  dejected. 
As  BEAU,  with  a  last  look  at  the  PRINCE 
through  his  glass,  turns  and  walks  toward  the 
door, 

THE   CURTAIN   FALLS 


THE   THIRD   ACT 

The  Mall,  St.  James  Park,  the  great  promenade 

where,  every  day,  all  London  walks.     There  are 

benches  on  each  side  of  the  stage  under  the   trees. 

At  the  back,  ladies  and  gentlemen  can  be  seen 

walking. 

[MORTIMER  comes  on  from  right-hand  side, 
and  walks  up  and  down  impatiently.  After 
a  little,  KATHLEEN  appears  in  a  great  hurry. 

KATHLEEN.   Oh!     You're  there,  are  you? 

MORTIMER.      [Indignantly.]      Am      I      here  ? 
You're  half  an  hour  late. 

KATHLEEN.    [Airily]     Well,  what  do  you  ex 
pect?     Aren't    I    a    woman?     Say,    what's    the 
matter    with    your  face?     You    have    an    awful 
gloomy  expression  of  countenance. 
125 


126  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MORTIMER.  [Laughing.]  You  little  minx. 
Well,  how  goes  it? 

KATHLEEN.  [Crossing  to  bench  and  sitting  down.] 
Why,  bad.  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  keep  one 
lie  from  spoiling  the  other.  Say,  is  all  this  true 
about  Mr.  Brummell  and  the  Prince? 

MORTIMER.   Yes.     We've  quarreled. 

KATHLEEN.    And  did  the  Prince  cut  ye's? 

MORTIMER.  No ;  we  cut  the  Prince,  and  on 
account  of  you  Vincents,  too.  The  Prince  is 
deuced  put  out  with  Mr.  Brummell,  [crosses  to 
bench  and  sits]  so  Bendon  told  me.  It's  all  abroad, 
and  I  left  a  swarm  of  creditors  at  the  house,  and, 
worse  still,  there  are  two  bailiffs  after  him. 
[KATHLEEN  gives  an  exclamation  of  horror.]  We 
must  hurry  on  this  marriage,  Kathleen,  or  you 
and  I'll  be  ruined.  We  must  take  pains  to  keep 
Mr.  Brummell  and  his  nephew  apart,  for  he's 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  127 

that  partial  to  him  there's  no  telling  what  he 
mightn't  do  if  he  was  to  discover  Miss  Mariana 
and  Mr.  Reginald  were  lovers. 

KATHLEEN.  And  we  must  see  to  it  that  Miss 
Mariana  and  Mr.  Reginald  don't  meet,  else  he'd 
explain  how  he'd  never  received  any  of  her  letters. 
I  kept  them  all  carefully,  for  I  thought  it  might 
comfort  him  to  read  'em  after  she  was  married 
to  Mr.  Brummell.  But  I  must  be  off.  [Rises.] 
Good  morning,  me  Lud. 

[Makes  very  deep  curtsy. 

MORTIMER.  [Bowing  very  low.}  Till  this  even 
ing,  me  Lady. 

KATHLEEN.   Till  this  evening. 

[Turns  to  go  out,  and  meets  REGINALD  face  to 
face. 

REGINALD.  Ah!  Kathleen,  where  have  you 
been  this  last  week  ? 


128  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

KATHLEEN.  [7s  very  much  perturbed;  MORTI 
MER  has  retreated  to  the  back  of -the  Mall,  and  has 
disappeared.]  Here,  sir,  here. 

REGINALD.  Will  your  mistress  be  in  the  Park 
this  morning  ? 

KATHLEEN.   No,  sir ;   she  left  town  to-day,  sir. 

REGINALD.  [A  little  wistfully.]  Was  she  —  in 
good  spirits,  Kathleen? 

KATHLEEN.  Oh,  beautiful,  sir !  She  skipt  with 
joy. 

REGINALD.  [Gives  KATHLEEN  money,  and  then 
slowly  walks  away.]  I  cannot  understand  it.  I 
am  sure  there  is  some  mistake. 

KATHLEEN.  [Looking  at  the  coin  disdainfully.] 
That's  mighty  small  pay  for  a  mighty  big  lie. 
Bad  cess  to  him  ! 

[She  walks  off  at  the  Right  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 
As  she  disappears,  REGINALD  comes  down  as 


BEAU   BRUMMELL  129 

though  to  call  her  back,  but  she  has  gone,  and 
he  turns  to  see  MORTIMER. 
REGINALD.   Ah,   Mortimer,   is  Mr.   Brummell 
well? 

MORTIMER.    [Very  respectfully,    hat   in   hand.] 
No,  sir.     Not  at  all,  sir.     He  can  see  no  one,  sir. 
REGINALD.    But  he  will  see  me? 
MORTIMER.   Excuse  me,  sir,  but  he  especially 
mentioned  your  name,  sir ;  he  could  not  even  see 
you. 

REGINALD.   Will  he  not  be  in  the  Mall  this 
morning  ? 

MORTIMER.   No,  oh  no,  sir. 

REGINALD.   Well,  tell  him  I  will  visit  him  to 
morrow. 

[REGINALD  goes  of  down  path  to  the  Right. 

MORTIMER.   That  was  a  tight  squeeze.     I  ex 
pect  him  here  any  moment.     I  must  see  him  and 


I3o  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

warn  him  of  the  bailiffs,  if  he  only  arrives  before 

they  do. 

[MORTIMER  goes  of  hurriedly  by  a  path  to  the 

Left.     BEAU  enters  from  the  lower  left-hand 

side,  and  walks  slowly  to  the  Centre,  followed 

by  MORTIMER.     MORTIMER   seems  quite  out 

of  breath.     BEAU  is  dressed  in  dark  green  silk 

knee-breeches,  green  coat,  black  silk  stockings, 

buckled    shoes,    frilled    shirt    and   neckcloth; 

wears  two  fobs,  carries  cane  with  eye-glass  in 

the  top;  has  gray  high  hat  of  the  period,  yellow 

waistcoat,  yellow  gloves,  large  red  boutonniere. 

MORTIMER.   Mr.  Brummell,  sir  ! 

[BEAU  starts,  turns,  lifts  cane  slowly,  looks  at 

MORTIMER  through  glass  on  top,  then  turns 

away  and  continues  his  walk. 

MORTIMER.    [Very    deferentially,     but    firmly.] 

Mr.  Brummell,  sir ! 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  ni 

BEAU.  {Without  turning.}  I  think  there  is 
some  mistake. 

MORTIMER.  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  I  must  speak 
to  you. 

BEAU.  You  forget,  Mortimer,  servants  in  the 
street  are  like  children  at  the  table,  —  they  may 
be  seen,  but  must  not  be  heard. 

MORTIMER.  I  have  not  forgotten,  sir,  but  this 
is  serious. 

BEAU.    Serious  !  then  it  is  sure  to  be  unpleasant 
-  wait  till  I  take  some  snuff. 
{Takes  snuff  very  quietly,  and  with  much  ceremony 
replaces   box;  then   nods  to   MORTIMER  and 
listens. 

MORTIMER.    Sir,  your  quarrel  with  the  Prince 
is  already  common  talk. 

BEAU.    {Brushing  a  little  snuff  of  his  ruffles.} 
Ah,  poor  Wales! 


I32  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

MORTIMER.   There  was  a  crowd  of  creditors 
at  your  door  when  I  left,  sir. 

BEAU.   That  is  neither  new  nor  serious. 
MORTIMER.   But  they  were  angry  and  would 
not  go  away. 

BEAU.   Why  did  you  not  send  them  off  ? 
MORTIMER.   Sir,  we've  been  sending  them  off  for 
the  past  two  years,  and  now  —  they  won't  be  sent. 
Besides,  sir,  there  are  two  bailiffs  who  swore  they'd 
have  you  if  they  had  to  take  you  in  the  Mall. 
BEAU.   Impossible ! 

MORTIMER.  I  fear  not,  sir;  one  is  from  Mr. 
Abrahams. 

BEAU.  Here?  In  the  Mall?  I  would  rather 
perish !  There  is  no  help  for  it.  [To  himself.] 
I  must  make  a  shield  of  my  marriage.  I  blush 
to  do  it,  for  it  would  seem  to  leave  a  blot  upon 
my  love  for  Mariana,  but  a  blot  upon  that  love 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  133 

is  better  than  a  blot  upon  the  name  of  Brummell, 
the  name  she  is  to  wear.  [Aloud  to  MORTIMER.] 
Mortimer ! 

MORTIMER.   Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.  You  must  hasten  back  and  meet  them, 
these  dogs  of  bailiffs ;  you  must  prevent  them  by 
telling  them  of  my  marriage  to  the  daughter  of 
Mr.  Oliver  Vincent.  That  prospect  should  satisfy 
them.  Promise  them  all  they  demand — and 
added  interest.  [BEAU  starts  to  go  of  at  the 
right-hand  side;  MORTIMER  also  moves  of  to  the 
Left.]  Promise  them  everything.  [MORTIMER 
stops  and  bows  respectfully,  then  starts  again. 
BEAU  moves  on  a  few  paces,  then  stops  again.] 
Promise  them  anything  ! 

[MORTIMER  again  stops  and  bows.  BEAU 
moves  on  again,  and  MORTIMER  also  starts 
again  to  go.  BEAU  stops  suddenly. 


i34  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

BEAU.  And,  Mortimer !  [MORTIMER  stops,  and 
comes  back  a  few  steps.}  You  must  not  go  unre 
warded  [MORTIMER  looks  pleased  and  expectant] ; 
promise  yourself  something ! 

[BEAU  walks  slowly  of  at  the  right-hand  side  and 
MORTIMER,  with  low  bow,  replaces   his   hat, 
and  goes  quickly  off  at  the  Left  side. 
MORTIMER.    [As  he  exits.}     Yes,  sir ! 
[VINCENT  and  MARIANA  enter  from  the  upper 
left-hand     entrance.     MARIANA     is     dressed 
simply   but   prettily  in   a   light  flowered   silk 
gown  and  poke  bonnet,  with  a  parasol. 
VINCENT.    We'll  be  sure  to  meet  him  here  some 
where.     You  must  do  it  all,  Mariana.     He  was 
just  as  haughty  with  me  last  night  after  we  left 
Carlton  House  as  he  always  was.     You  wouldn't 
have  thought  he  had  just  sacrificed  himself  for  me. 
MARIANA.   Sacrificed  himself  for  you,  papa? 


BEAU  ERUMMELL  135 

VINCENT.  Isn't  it  sacrificing  himself  for  him 
to  give  up  his  position  in  the  world?  And  isn't 
that  what  he  has  done  to  resent  your  father's 
insult? 

MARIANA.  [Trying  to  lighten  the  seriousness  oj 
the  situation.]  I  fancied  he  did  it  partly  on  my 
account,  papa. 

VINCENT.  Of  course,  you  little  rogue,  it  was  for 
us  both,  but  it's  you  alone  who  can  repay  him. 
He  hasn't  a  penny,  and  this  rupture  with  the 
Prince  has  brought  down  all  his  creditors  upon 
him.  With  the  money  your  dowry  will  bring  him 
[MARIANA  turns  her  head  away,  biting  her  lip],  he 
can  pay  off  his  creditors  and  defy  the  Prince. 
Without  it  he  can  do  neither,  and  is  utterly  ruined. 

MARIANA.  I  realize,  father,  that  it  is  through 
us  this  sudden  calamity  has  come  upon  Mr. 
Brummell.  It  was  you,  papa,  who  were  to  blame. 


136  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

Why  did  you  bring  down  the  curtain  before  the 

comedy  was  over? 

VINCENT.  [A  little  irritably.}  Come,  come, 
Mariana,  you  have  too  teasing  a  temper. 

MARIANA.  [Seriously  enough  now.}  Ah,  my 
dear  father,  I  only  want  to  help  you  by  making 
light  of  the  matter.  Come  [taking  his  arm  and 
crossing  slowly  toward  the  Right],  let  us  find  Mr. 
Brummell.  I  am  not  blind  to  the  fact  that  it 
was  by  protecting  you  and  me  he  exposed  himself 
to  insult.  Well,  he  shall  not  suffer  for  it.  Father, 
I  promise  you  that  I  will  accept  his  hand  ! 

VINCENT.  And  I  feel  sure  that  it  will  mean 
happiness  for  you  in  the  end.  Wait  here  [seats 
MARIANA  on  bench  at  Right]  a  moment,  and  I  will 
return  with  Mr.  Brummell. 

[VINCENT  exits  at  the  upper  right-hand  path. 

MARIANA.   Yes,     yes.     I    must    hesitate    no 


BEAU  B RUM M ELL  137 

longer.     I  must  think  now  only  of  my  father, 
and  not  remember  Reginald,  who  has  neglected « 
me.     Gratitude   and   sympathy   shall    take   the 
place  of  love  in  my  heart. 

[MRS.   ST.   AUBYN  enters  from  right-hand  en 
trance,  dressed  very  exquisitely  in  white,  —  large 
white  hat;  she  carries  a  fan. 
MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.   Ah,  Miss  Vincent !     Is  Mr. 
Brummell  with  you? 

[Makes  a  very   slight   curtsy. 
MARIANA.   [Rising  and  curtsying.]    No ;    my 
father. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  And  you  have  him  to  thank 
for  the  scene  last  evening.  It  is  he  Mr.  Brummell 
has  to  thank  for  the  Prince's  displeasure. 

MARIANA.  [Anxiously.]  Madam,  and  is  the 
Prince  still  angry? 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.    [With  great  relish.]     He  is 


138  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

furious,  and  swears  he  will  never  forgive  him. 
There  is,  I  think,  only  one  person  who  could 
influence  him  in  Mr.  BrummelFs  behalf,  and  that 
person  —  is  —  myself ! 

[Crosses  triumphantly  in  front  of  MARIANA,  with 
a  sweep  of  her  fan  on  the  last  word. 

MARIANA.  [Eagerly  going  a  little  toward  her.] 
Then,  surely,  you  who  have  been  such  a  good 
friend  of  Mr.  Brummell  will  use  your  influence 
in  his  behalf.  Indeed,  if  I  am  not  wrong,  it  was 
through  Mr.  Brummell  that  you  met  the  Prince. 
Your  smoothing  this  quarrel,  then,  will  be  but  a 
fair  return  to  him. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  You  forget  I  am  a  woman  of 
fashion.  We  take  all  we  can  get,  but  we  never 
give  anything.  No,  only  on  one  condition  shall 
I  persuade  the  Prince  to  hold  Mr.  Brummell 
again  in  favor. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  139 

MARIANA.  [With  quiet  scorn.}  Ah,  I  see,  a 
condition.  Then  you  women  of  the  world  con 
descend  to  sell,  if  you  will  not  give. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  [Angrily.]  You  would  do 
better  not  to  ruffle  me.  My  condition  is  this: 
If  you  will  promise  to  relinquish  Mr.  Brummell, 
I  will  make  the  Prince  piomise  not  to  cut  him, 
as  he  has  sworn  to  do  publicly  to-day. 

[Looks  triumphantly  at  MARIANA,  then  turns 
away  as  though  to  give  her  time  to  consider. 

MARIANA.  I  would  I  could  accept  this  prop 
osition,  but  I  cannot,  I  cannot !  'Twould  be 
the  greatest  injustice  to  Mr.  Brummell.  I 
must  not  forget  that  he  did  not  hesitate  to  sacri 
fice  himself  for  me  and  my  father.  I  spoke  to 
her  of  making  him  a  return.  Let  me  not  shrink 
then  from  making  as  just  a  one  myself.  [Then 
speaking  to  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN,  who  has  turned  to- 


140  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

ward  MARIANA.]     What  right  have  you  to  ask 

any  one  to  give  him  up? 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.   He  sought  my  favors  before 
you  enticed  him  from  me. 

MARIANA.  [Very  quietly.}    I  do  not  believe  that. 
MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.    [Angrily.]    You  are  uncom 
monly  insolent.     [Then  changing  her  tone  to  one 
of  condescension.}     Well,  even  if  it  were  not  so,  I 
should   still  have   the   right   to   ask  you.     You 
seem  to  forget  the  difference  in  our  position. 
[She  sweeps  past  MARIANA  with  a  grand  air 
toward    the   Right.     At   this    moment    BEAU 
enters  from  the  right-hand  side ;    he  has  over 
heard  the  last  speech.     He  crosses  to  the  Centre, 
bowing  to  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  as  he  passes  her, 
and  with  a  very  low  bow  to  MARIANA  says: 
BEAU.   It  is  you,  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn,  who  forget. 
It  is  greatly  to  the  credit  of  Miss  Vincent  if  she 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  141 

can  overlook  a  difference  your  present  conduct 
makes  so  very  marked. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  [With  a  -very  low  curtsy.} 
I  will  repeat  to  you  what  I  have  just  said  to  Miss 
Vincent. 

BEAU.  [Airily.}  Pray  do  not  fatigue  yourself, 
madam. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  You  will  learn  that  I  know 
how  to  remain  a  friend  when  once  I  become  one. 
I  offered  Miss  Vincent  the  chance  of  regaining 
for  you  the  Prince's  friendship. 

BEAU.   And  your  price  ? 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.    [In  a  low  tone.}     Yourself. 

BEAU.  [To  MARIANA.]  And  you,  you  refused? 
[MARIANA  bows  her  head.}  It  would  have  been 
most  unflattering,  madam,  had  Miss  Vincent 
disposed  of  me  so  cheaply. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.    [Who  is  now  enraged  almost 


142  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

beyond  the  bounds  of  endurance.]  Are  you  mad? 
Do  you  know  to  whom  you  are  speaking?  You 
are  somewhat  rash,  sir.  Discard  me,  and  the 
Prince  shall  know  all. 

BEAU.  He  knows  so  very  little  at  present,  the 
knowledge  of  anything  would  be  largely  to  his 
advantage.  And  yet  —  I  cannot  imagine  you 
will  tell  him  —  all. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Your  raillery  is  ill  planned. 
A  woman  scorned  — 

BEAU.  Pray  spare  us,  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn;  you 
were  never  intended  for  tragedy  —  it  does  not 
become  you  —  and  it  produces  [pause]  —  wrinkles. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.    [Has  now  recovered  her  com 
posure.]     Mr.  Brummell,  I  bid  you  adieu  —  you 
have  taught  me  how  to  smile  even  when  —  tush 
—  I  am  a  woman  of  fashion !     [Crosses  to  Left, 
passing  MARIANA.]     Miss  Vincent,   I  wish  you 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  H3 

joy.  [With  an  exaggerated  deep  curtsy.  MARIANA 
curtsies.  Looks  of  up  the  Left  path,  and  calls:} 
Manly  —  Lord  Manly.  [MANLY  comes  on,  raises 
hat,  boivs.}  Lord  Manly  —  your  arm  —  your  arm. 
[They  go  off  arm  in  arm. 

MARIANA.  [Sinking  down  on  bench.]  Your  regard 
and  protection  leave  me  too  much  in  your  debt. 

BEAU.  Pray  let  that  debt  weigh  no  more 
heavily  on  you  than  do  my  debts  on  me.  One 
smile  of  yours  had  overpaid  me. 

MARIANA.  If  your  creditors  were  as  easily 
satisfied  as  you  are,  sir,  I  should  be  prodigal  of  my 
smiles. 

BEAU.  [Crossing  to  MARIANA'S  side.]  Ah, 
Mariana,  if  your  smiles  were  the  coinage,  egad, 
I  think  I  should  turn  miser. 

MARIANA.  You  are  not  practical,  sir  I  must 
make  you  so. 


i44  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

BEAU.  I  am  your  slave,  and  the  chains  I  wear 
are  no  burden.  May  I  indeed  hope  that  you 
will  accept  my  humble  service?  That  you  will 
be  my  wife  ?  [Stands  hat  in  hand. 

MARIANA.  Yes,  Mr.  Brummell,  I  honor  and 
respect  you.  [Gives  her  hand  to  BEAU.]  I  will  be 
your  wife. 

BEAU.  [Kissing  her  hand.]  And  may  I  hope 
you  will  learn  to  love  me  a  little  ? 

MARIANA.  I  do  indeed  hope  so.  [Aside.] 
Or  make  myself  forget. 

BEAU.  [Putting  on  his  hat  with  a  buoyant  ges 
ture.]  Come,  Mariana,  [MARIANA  rises]  honor 
my  arm  —  and  we  will  tell  the  whole  world  of  our 
—  of  my  happiness. 

[They  go  of  at  left-hand  path.  VINCENT  enters 
from  the  Right. 

VINCENT.   I    can't   find   him   anywhere.     I'm 


BEAU   BRUMMELL  145 

afraid  he's  hiding,  poor  fellow,  from  those  bailiffs, 
and  doesn't  dare  show  his  face  lest  he  be  taken. 
Where's  Mariana?  Has  she  changed  her  mind 
and  gone?  No,  she  gave  her  promise  she'd 
accept  him,  and  I  can  trust  to  her  word.  I'll 
search  for  her  now,  and  perhaps,  by  so  doing,  I 
may  find  him. 

[VINCENT  goes  out  by  upper  path,  left-hand  side. 

Two  BAILIFFS  enter  from  upper  right-hand  path. 

They  are  villainous-looking  creatures;  one  limps 

—  the  other  has  a  patch  over  one  eye,  and  both  have 

very  red  noses;  they  are  dressed  in  ragged  clothes. 

FIRST   BAILIFF.   Our  gentleman's   so  fine  we 

mustn't  bother  our  eyes  with  winking,  or  he'll 

slip  through  our  fingers. 

SECOND  BAILIFF.  Not  if  I  know  it.  This  is 
the  most  fashionable  affair  of  my  life.  Look 
here  —  who's  this  ? 


T46  BEAU  BRVMMELL 

[He  points  to  the  left-hand  path.  They  both 
quickly  withdraw  behind  a  tree.  BEAU  enters 
from  the  Left. 

BEAU.   I'll  leave  her  to  inform  her  father.     I 

must  find  Mortimer;    he  should  have  returned 

by  now.     What  if  he  should  not  have  met  those 

bailiffs  —  if  they  should  still  be  at  large.     Zounds ! 

[He  sits  on  bench  at  Right. 

FIRST  BAILIFF.    [In  a  low  tone.]     That's  him! 

SECOND  BAILIFF.   Lud  —  ain't  he  scrumptious ! 

We  ought  to  have  a  pair  of  silver  sugar-tongs  to 

take  him  with. 

[They  come  down,  one  behind  the  other. 
FIRST  BAILIFF.   Mr.  Brummell,  sir  ! 
BEAU.   [Looking  up.]    The  devil ! 
FIRST  BAILIFF.   No,  sir,  the  bailiff. 
BEAU.   What  is  the  difference? 

[The  BAILIFFS  look  at  one  another  in  amazement. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  147 

FIRST  BAILIFF.   We've  been  looking  for  you,  sir. 

BEAU.    I  am  so  sorry  you  have  put  yourself  to 

that  trouble,   and  you  must  not  speak   to  me 

here.     Do    you    realize    what    you    are    doing? 

Suppose  some  one  were  to  observe  you.     My  valet 

will  attend  to  you. 

FIRST  BAILIFF.  Oh,  we'll  take  care  of  your 
valet  later ;  it's  you  that  we've  got  a  couple  of 
papers  for  this  morning.  I  represent  your  land 
lord,  sir! 

[BEAU  lifts  his  cane  with  great  deliberation,  and 

looks  at  him  through  the  glass. 
BEAU.   Are  you  the  best  he  can  do? 
FIRST  BAILIFF.   You  have  lived  in  his  house 
three  years,  and  he  considers  it's  time  as  how  you 
paid  a  bit  of  rent. 

BEAU.  [.4 s  though  to  himself.}  The  ungrateful 
wretch!  The  very  fact  of  my  having  resided 


I4g  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

in  his  house  should  be  more  than  sufficient  remu 
neration. 

SECOND  BAILIFF.  [Comes  up  in  front  of  BEAU, 
while  FIRST  BAILIFF  retires  a  little,  shaking  his 
head  as  though  completely  puzzled.]  And  I  am  here 
for  Mr.  Abrahams  and  several  other  gentlemen. 
BEAU.  You  remind  me  of  the  person  in  the 
theatre  whom  they  call  the  super,  who  represents 
the  enemy  on  the  march  or  the  company  in  the 
ballroom.  We  will  dispense  with  your  company, 
sir. 

FIRST  BAILIFF.  [Coming  up  again.]  That 
won't  do,  Mr.  Brummell.  You  must  pay,  or 
come  along  with  us. 

[Makes  vague  gesture  of  thumb  over  shoulder. 
SECOND  BAILIFF.    [Making  same  gesture  as  he 
withdraws  again]    Yes,  pay,  or  come  along  with 
us. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  149 

BEAU.  You  men  must  be  mad;  the  Prince  will  be 

here  presently,  and  I  will  speak  to  him.       [Rises. 

FIRST    BAILIFF.    [Obsequiously.]    Oh,    if    His 

Royal  Highness  will  help  you,  sir,  of  course  we 

won't  press  matters. 

BEAU.  See  that  you  do  not.  And  now,  [looking 
at  them  through  his  glass]  trot  away,  trot  away, 
and  walk  in  Fleet  Street;  the  Mall  is  really  no 
place  for  you. 

[He  turns,  lifts  his  boutonniere  so  he  can  inhale 

the  perfume  of  the  floweis,   and  then  walks 

away    with    great    deliberation.     They    stand 

staring   after   him  for  an  instant,   stupefied. 

FIRST   BAILIFF.   We'll   keep   our   eye   on   our 

gentleman,  just  the  same.     These  little  rumors 

about  the  Prince  and  him  might  be  true  after  all, 

and  if  they  are,   why,  we  won't  walk  in  Fleet 

Street  alone. 


150  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

[He  pulls  a  black  bottle  out  of  his  pocket,  takes  a 
drink,  and  then  hands  it  to  the  SECOND  BAILIFF, 
who  also  takes  a  drink ;  then  they  go  off  in  the 
same  direction  BEAU  went.  The  DUCHESS, 
LADY  FARTHINGALE,  LORD  MANLY  and 
SHERIDAN  come  on  from  the  left-hand  path. 
LORD  MANLY  and  LADY  FARTHINGALE  cross  to 
the  right-hand  bench.  LADY  FARTHINGALE  sits, 
MANLY  stands  by  her  side.  Three  ladies  and 
gentlemen  come  on  at  the  back  and  stand  there, 
apparently  chatting  or  listening  to  the  DUCHESS. 
DUCHESS.  Where  can  Beau  have  disappeared 

to?     It's  near  time  for  the  Prince  to  be  out,  and 

I  wouldn't  miss  observing  the  meeting  for  worlds. 

Pray,    Sherry,   give   us   your   opinion  —  will   he 

cut  him  or  not? 

[The  DUCHESS  has  been  flying  around,  looking 
for  BEAU  in  every  direction. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  151 

SHERIDAN.  Really,  Duchess,  I  cannot  say  what 
the  Prince  will  do.  He's  too  great  a  fool  for  me 
to  put  myself  in  his  place. 

MANLY.  Damme,  of  course  he'll  cut  him,  and, 
moreover,  Beau  deserves  it. 

SHERIDAN.  [Decidedly.]  Then,  for  my  part, 
I  say,  let's  move  on. 

DUCHESS.  [Equally  decided.}  We'll  do  no  such 
thing.  We  must  see  for  ourselves,  so  that  we  can 
trust  our  own  ears  and  know  how  to  treat  Mr. 
Brummell  accordingly.  Besides,  if  we  observe 
it,  we  can  inform  others  of  the  affair  correctly, 
and  there  wrill  be  some  merit  in  that. 

[SHERIDAN  moves  away  to  the  Right,  with  a  shrug 
of  his  shoulders. 

LADY  FARTHINGALE.  Mr.  Brummell  will  never 
be  able  to  stand  it  if  he's  injured.  I  should  not 
wonder  now  if  he  fainted ! 


i5 2  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

DUCHESS.  Dear  me,  do  you  think  so?  [Face 
falls  as  though  disappointed.}  I  don't  know,  I'm 
afraid  not. 

SHERIDAN.  [Impatiently.]  He's  more  likely  to 
resent  any  insult,  I'm  convinced. 

DUCHESS.  [Most  excited,  rushes  to  LADY  FAR 
THINGALE.]  What !  A  duel !  Oh,  Lud,  Lady 
Farthingale,  only  think  —  a  duel !  Deuce  take 
it,  where  can  Beau  be?  I'm  afraid  the  Prince 
will  arrive  first. 

SHERIDAN.  [Sarcastically.]  My  dear  Duchess, 
prithee  be  calm;  you  are  too  great  an  enthu 
siast. 

DUCHESS.  [Looking  of  at  the  Right.}  Here 
comes  Mr.  Brummell,  I  vow.  Do  you  notice 
anything  different  in  his  manner  of  walk 
ing? 

SHERIDAN.    [Monocle  in  eye,  looks  of  in  direc- 


BEAU   BRUMMELL  153 

lion  BEAU  is  supposed  to  be.}     He  seems  to  have 
the  same  number  of  legs  as  formerly. 

[He  crosses  over  to  the  Left. 
DUCHESS.   Oh,  you  may  rail  at  me,   Sherry, 
but  it's  no  laughing  matter  for  Mr.  Brummell,  I 
can  tell  you. 

LADY  FARTHINGALE.  [Rising  so  she  can  see 
better.]  He's  coming  —  he's  coming  ! 

DUCHESS.  Lud,  we  must  not  expose  ourselves! 
We  must  at  least  feign  utter  ignorance  of  the 
affair.  [BEAU  enters.]  Ah,  Beau! 

[The  ladies  curtsy,  the  men  raise  their  hats. 
BEAU.    Still    loitering,    Duchess?     I    was    so 
afraid  you  would  have  returned  home. 

[He  joins  SHERIDAN  on  the  other  side. 

DUCHESS.    [Aside     to     LADY     FARTHINGALE.] 

You  hear?     A  hint  for  us  to  go,  but  he'll  not 

hoodwink  his   Duchess.     [To  BEAU.]     We  were 


154  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

just  going,  but  we'll  rest  a  moment  for  another 

chat  with  you. 

BEAU.  Too  good  of  you,  Duchess.  Are  you 
not  afraid  to  risk  your  —  what's  that  called, 
Sherry  ?  [Touching  his  cheek. 

SHERIDAN.    [Much  embarrassed.]     Complexion. 

BEAU.   Yes,  your  complexion  in  the  sun. 

[Chats  with  SHERIDAN.  DUCHESS,  very  angry, 
does  not  know  what  to  say  until  LADY  FAR 
THINGALE'S  speech  gives  her  a  chance  to  show 
her  spitef  illness. 

LADY  FARTHINGALE.  Here  comes  His  Royal 
Highness ! 

DUCHESS.  [Looking  of  at  the  Right.}  The 
Prince!  Is  he  truly?  I  didn't  expect  him  this 
morning.  Beau,  the  Prince  is  coming. 

BEAU.  [Indi/erently.]  Is  he  really?  Where's 
the  music  ?  In  the  play  the  Prince  always  comes 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  155 

on  with  music.     Let's  be  going,  Sherry,  there's 
no  music. 

[Takes  SHERIDAN'S  arm,  and  they  move  off  to  the 

Left. 

DUCHESS.    [Meaningly.]     What,      Beau,      you 

wouldn't  leave  before  His  Royal  Highness  comes? 

BEAU.    [Seeing  there  is  no  escape,  meets  his  fate 

gallantly]     By    my    manners,    no !    Sherry,    let 

us  meet  him. 

[They  turn  and  start  to  the  Right,  as  the  PRINCE 
enters  with  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  on  his  arm.     The 
DUCHESS  has  retreated  back  to  where  LADY 
FARTHINGALE  is  standing. 
DUCHESS.   The  deuce,  did  you  hear  that,  Lady 
Farthingale  ? 

[BEAU  and  SHERIDAN  reach  the  Centre  and  stop. 
The  PRINCE  and  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  pass 
directly  by  BEAU,  although  he  stands,  hat  in 


156  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

hand,  and  the  PRINCE  addresses  SHERIDAN. 
BEAU  replaces  hat  and  listens  with  an  amused 
expression. 

PRINCE.  Sup.  with  me  to-night,  Sherry,  after 
the  play.  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  and  the  Duchess  will 
be  there  with  us,  and,  egad,  we'll  make  a  night 
of  it. 

[SHERIDAN  can  only  bow  acquiescence,  and  the 
PRINCE   and   MRS.    ST.    AUBYN   move  on  a 
little    way.     BEAU,    lifting    his    glass,    looks 
after  them  and  says  to  SHERIDAN  : 
BEAU.    Sherry,  who's  your  fat  friend? 
[SHERIDAN  is  divided  between  delight  and  amaze 
ment    at    his    daring,    and   consternation   at 
thought  of  the  consequences,  and  whispers  in 
BEAU'S  ear. 

PRINCE.    [Who    has    stopped    short.]     Well - 
damn  his  impudence ! 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  157 

BEAU.  [Affects  not  to  hear  or  understand 
SHERIDAN.]  I  beg  your  pardon,  who  did  you  say  ? 
I  had  no  idea  he  looked  like  that.  Is  it  really? 
You  don't  say  so?  Dear,  dear,  what  a  pity! 
What  a  pity ! 

[Takes  SHERIDAN'S  arm  and  they  go  of  at  the 

Right,  BEAU  with  his  usual  imperturbable  air, 

and  SHERIDAN  visibly  shaking  and  dejected. 

The  PRINCE  and  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  are  at  the 

Left,  the  PRINCE  speechless  with  rage,  and  MRS. 

ST.  AUBYN  trying  to  say  something  consoling. 

DUCHESS.   Well,   I've   had   all   my   pains   for 

nothing. 

LADY  FARTHINGALE.  But,  Duchess,  did  you 
see? 

DUCHESS.  See  what?  There  was  nothing  to 
see !  [With  a  chuckle.}  Lud,  Beau  got  the  best 
of  it. 


158  BEAU   BRUMMELt 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Duchess,  you  look  ill. 
Doesn't  the  air  agree  with  you,  or  is  it  the  day 
light? 

DUCHESS.  [Loftily.]  I  hope,  my  dear  Mrs. 
St.  Aubyn,  you'll  never  look  worse. 

[With  a  deep  curtsy. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  [With  affected  horror.] 
Heaven  forbid ! 

[The  PRINCE  and  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  exit  at  Left. 
All  the  people  at  back  exit. 

DUCHESS.  Come,  let's  be  going.  [LORD 
MANLY  offers  one  arm  to  the  DUCHESS,  LADY 
FARTHINGALE  takes  his  other  arm.  They  move  of 
toward  the  Left.]  Where  can  Beau  have  dis 
appeared  to  ?  Of  course,  it's  of  no  interest  to  us, 
only  I  must  say  it  was  uncommonly  ill-natured  of 
him  not  to  make  more  of  a  scene  for  our  sakes, 
you  know. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  159 

[They  all  go  out.     BEAU  and  SHERIDAN  enter 
from  the  Right,  followed  by  the  Two  BAILIFFS. 
SHERIDAN  speaks  as  they  come  on. 
SHERIDAN.   Your    marriage,    my    dear    Beau, 
will  redeem  your  misfortune,  and  it  is  the  only 
thing  that  will. 

[They  have  reached  the  Centre  by  this  time,  and 
BEAU  sees  the  BAILIFFS.     He  stops,  puts  up  his 
glass,  looks  at  them,  and  says : 
BEAU.     [Shaking    his    finger    at    SHERIDAN."] 
Sherry,  Sherry,  who  are  these  fellows  following 
you? 

[SHERIDAN  turns  and  sees  the  BAILIFFS,  and  be 
comes  much  agitated. 
BAILIFF.   Mr.  Brummell,  sir ! 
[BEAU  sees  it's  no  use  to  try  to  deceive  SHERIDAN. 
BEAU.   Zounds !     Proceed.     Sherry,      I      will 
join  you  in  a  moment.     Well,  my  good  men  ! 


160  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

[SHERIDAN  hurries  off,  shaking  his  head  sadly. 

BEAU.   You  donkeys,  would  you  ruin  me? 

BAILIFF.  Come,  come,  we've  had  enough  of 
your  airs,  now.  You'd  better  come  along  with 
us  quietly.  {Places  finger  on  BEAU'S  shoulder. 

BEAU.  [Moves  away.]  For  Heaven's  sake, 
don't  put  those  hands  on  me !  Why  don't  you 
wear  gloves?  [BAILIFF,  who  had  retreated  a  step, 
comes  closer.]  And  don't  come  so  close.  You 
are  too  hasty  and  ill-advised  — -  you  have  no 
manners.  [BAILTFFS  retreat  in  real  confusion  and 
astonishment.]  There's  one  resource,  I  must  tell 
them.  [He  takes  out  snuff-box,  and  takes  snuff 
with  great  deliberation,  and  does  not  speak  until  he 
has  returned  box,  brushed  his  lace  ruffles,  —  then  he 
turns  to  them.}  Had  you  met  my  valet  he  would 
have  delivered  to  you  my  message.  It  was  to  the 
effect  that  the  banns  of  marriage  between  the 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  161 

daughter  of  Mr.  Oliver  Vincent  and  myself  are  to 
be  published  in  St.  James's  on  Sunday.  As  the 
son-in-law  of  the  merchant,  prince,  I  can  not  only 
satisfy  your  master's  demands,  but  handsomely 
remember  you  yourselves.  Now,  trot  away,  trot 
away,  anywhere  out  of  my  sight.  [Turns  away. 

BAILIFF.  We've  heard  one  of  your  fine  stories  be 
fore,  and  we  don't  go  till  you  prove  what  you  say. 

BEAU.  How  very  annoying  !  [Looks  of  at  Left 
and  sees  MARIANA.  His  face  lights  up.]  Here 
comes  Mariana.  Here  is  the  young  lady  herself. 
Withdraw  and  you  shall  have  your  proof. 

[BAILIFFS  look  at  each  other. 

FIRST    BAILIFF.    [A    little    doubtfully. [     Well! 

SECOND  BAILIFF.  [Still  more  doubtfully]    Well!! 

FIRST  BAILIFF.   Well,  we'll  see  what  it  is,  eh? 

[They  exit  at  the  back  Left.     BEAU  walks  down  to 
the  Right,  brushes  his  shoulder  where  the  BAIL- 


162  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

IFF'S  hand  had  rested,  turns  and  crosses  toward 
Left  as  though  to  meet  MARIANA,  and  suddenly 
stops. 

BEAU.  What!  [Looks  again  as  though  he 
thought  himself  mistaken.}  Reginald  and  Mari 
ana  !  Mariana  and  Reginald ! 

[Shakes  his  head  as  though  to  dispel  the  thoughts 
that  would  come.  Then  walks  slowly  toward 
the  path  at  back,  leading  off  to  the  Left.  MARI 
ANA  enters  hastily,  followed  by  REGINALD,  both 
much  agitated. 

REGINALD.  I  have  been  wretched  beyond  the 
telling  —  my  letters  left  unanswered,  not  one 
word  from  you  in  fourteen  days  ! 

MARIANA.  My  letters  and  appeals  unanswered 
is  what  you  mean,  sir.  I  wrote  you  even  up  to 
yesterday,  and  Kathleen  vowed  that  she  delivered 
all  the  notes  till  then. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  163 

REGINALD.  To  whom  did  she  deliver  them? 
'Twas  not  to  me. 

MARIANA.  [With  a  cry  of  joy.]  What,  you  did 
not  receive  them?  Then  Kathleen  has  played 
me  false.  Oh,  Reginald,  what  I  have  suffered  in 
wrongly  thinking  you  untrue  to  me. 

REGINALD.  Such  doubt  of  me  was  cruel, 
Mariana,  but  [lightly]  come,  ask  my  pardon  and 
see  how  quickly  I'll  forgive  you. 

[Comes  to  her  and  tries  to  take  her  hands,  but 

MARIANA  draws  away. 
MARIANA.   No  — no!     I  cannot,  I  cannot. 
REGINALD.    [Misunderstanding.]     Then  see,  I'll 
forgive  without  the  asking. 

MARIANA.    [Still  refusing  to  let  him  take  her 
hand.}     Reginald,   what  will   you   think?     How 
can  I  tell  you?     It  is  too  late  now. 
REGINALD.   Too  late!     What  do  you  mean? 


!64  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MARIANA.   I  have  promised  myself  to  another. 
[BEAU  is  seen  at  back,  head  bowed,  his  attitude 

one  of  litter  sadness. 

REGINALD.    [Forcibly.]     You  must  break  that 
promise.     To  whom  has  it  been  given? 
MARIANA.   To  Mr.  Brummell. 
REGINALD.   Mr.  Brummell !     [In  shocked  sur 
prise.]     Great    Heavens!     Mariana,    he    is   my 
best  friend  —  my  benefactor. 
MARIANA.   No  —  no  ! 

REGINALD.  My  mother's  only  brother.  It  is  he 
who,  since  her  death,  has  cared  for  me  most  ten 
derly,  and,  all  my  life,  has  shielded  me  from  every 

harm. 

MARIANA.  He  is  overwhelmed  now  by  his 
difficulties.  His  creditors  are  like  bloodhounds 
on  his  track.  He  has  sacrificed  himself  for  me 
in  defence  of  my  father.  Through  me  alone 
can  he  be  rid  of  his  distresses. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  165 

REGINALD.  And  he  loves  you.  I  know  that, 
too,  and  you,  do  you  love  him? 

MARIANA.  [Reproachfully.}  You  should  not 
ask  me  that. 

REGINALD.  [Taking  her  hands.}  You  are  right ! 
But  I  cannot  give  you  up,  nor  can  I  see  my  uncle 
ruined ;  he  is  the  one  man  in  the  universe  from 
whom  I  would  not  steal  your  love.  'Tis  you  who 
must  decide. 

MARIANA.   And  I  have  done  so.     I  am  his. 

[BEAU  comes  down  to  the  Centre.  REGINALD  and 
MARIANA  draw  back  on  each  side. 

BEAU.  No  —  no,  I  give  you  up ;  I  release  you 
from  your  promise. 

[The  BAILIFFS  enter  and  stand  at  back,  listen 
ing. 

MARIANA.    [Starting forward.}     Sir! 

BEAU.   Take  her,  Reginald  ! 


166  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

[He  holds  out  his  hand  to  MARIANA,  who  is 
about  to  give  him  hers,  when  she  stops,  and 
withdraws  her  hand. 

MARIANA.  No,  I  am  yours.  I  will  not  be 
released.  Our  love  would  not  be  happiness  if  it 
entailed  your  ruin.  Reginald  has  told  me  that 
he  owes  to  you  his  life.  My  father  and  myself 
have  greater  cause  for  gratitude  to  you  than  I  can 
say.  I  hold  you  to  your  vows. 

BEAU.   Impossible;    I  now  release  you. 

REGINALD.  [Sees  the  BAILIFFS.]  Great  Heavens, 
the  bailiffs !  You  shall  not  sacrifice  yourself  for 
us.  I  join  with  Mariana  against  myself,  and  say 
that  she  is  yours. 

BEAU.  [Looks  at  him  with  great  affection.} 
No  —  no  I  [Brushes  an  imaginary  speck  from  his 
sleeve.]  I  love  you  both  too  well  to  come  between 
your  young  hearts'  happiness. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  167 

MARIANA.    [In    a   last   effort   to    change   him.] 
And  yet  you  loved  me ! 

[BEAU  takes  a  step  toward  her  with  a  look  of 
love  and  reproach. 

BEAU.   Mariana !     No,    [lifting    his    hat    and 
turning  away]  I  must  leave  you. 

REGINALD.   You  shall  not;    we  will  speak  to 
Mr.  Vincent  and  he  will  help  you. 

BEAU.  [Reprovingly.]  I  have  no  claim  what 
ever  on  Mr.  Vincent.  [BAILIFFS  standing  at  back 
give  a  nod  to  each  other.]  Take  her,  Reginald; 
wear  her  very  near  your  heart  for  my  sake. 
[Hands  MARIANA  to  REGINALD.]  And  now  I 
would  accompany  you  further,  but  I  cannot  - 
not  now.  [With  a  slight,  almost  imperceptible  turn 
toward  the  BAILIFFS.]  I  happen  to  have  a  very 
pressing  engagement  —  with — with — His  Maj 
esty! 


1 68  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

[BEAU  turns,  after  a  very  ceremonious  bow  to 
MARIANA  to  the  Right,  and  moves  of.  The 
BAILIFFS  have  come  down,  and  follow  him 
closely;  one  of  them  taps  him  on  the  shoulder. 
BEAU  stops  for  an  instant,  then  takes  out  snuff 
box,  and  takes  snuff,  and  walks  slowly  off  with 
the  greatest  dignity.  MARIANA  hides  her  face 
on  REGINALD'S  shoulder  as 

THE   CURTAIN    FALLS 


THE   FOURTH   ACT 

SCENE  ONE.  .-1  lodging  house  at  Calais  —  a  room 
at  the  top  of  the  house.  The  shabbiest  furni 
ture,  bare  floor,  window  at  the  back  with  rude 
settle  in  it;  the  tops  of  neighboring  houses  can  be 
seen  from  the  window.  A  large  fireplace  with 
small  fire  is  at  the  Right,  with  a  door  below,  leading 
into  another  room.  A  table  stands  in  the  middle 
of  room  with  a  chair  each  side.  Another  door  at 
the  Left  leads  into  the  hall.  BEAU  is  discovered 
sitting  in  front  of  fireplace  with  his  back  to  the 
audience.  He  is  dressed  in  a  yellow  brocaded 
dressing-gown,  apparently  the  same  one  worn  in 
Act  I,  but  with  its  glory  gone,  — faded  and  worn, 
torn  in  places.  He  wears  old  black  slippers,  with 
white  stockings  and  brown  trousers,"  slit  so  at  the 
169 


170  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

bottom  and  then  buttoned  tight"  His  hair  is  a 
little  gray,  his  face  thin  and  worn.  At  the  rise  of 
curtain  MORTIMER  enters  from  hallway.  He, 
too,  shows  the  wear  and  tear  of  poverty.  All  his 
jauntiness  has  gone;  he  is  shabbily  dressed. 
After  waiting  a  minute  to  see  if  BEAU  will 
notice  him,  he  speaks: 

MORTIMER.  Not  a  letter,  sir.  No  answer  to 
those  we  sent  over  a  month  ago.  Only  one  to  me 
from  Kathleen,  to  say  if  I  don't  return  immedi 
ately  she  will  take  to  Mr.  Sheridan's  gentleman 
for  good,  and  enclosing  me  the  passage-money 
over.  [BEAU  turns  a  little  and  looks  at  him,  as 
though  to  see  if  he  is  going.]  I  —  I  —  gave  it  to 
the  bootmaker,  whom  I  met  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  with  a  bailiff  as  I  came  in. 

[BEAU  sinks  back  in  his  chair  again,  satisfied 
that  MORTIMER  will  not  leave  him. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  171 

BEAU.  If  you  would  not  use  it  for  yourself, 
Mortimer,  you  might  at  least  have  bought  a 
pate  for  dinner  instead;  we  should  have  had 
something  to  eat,  and  we  could  have  made  the 
bailiff  stop  and  dine  with  us.  Could  you  make 
no  further  loans? 

[His  voice  is  harsh  and  strained. 
MORTIMER.   No  more,  sir.     I  tried  everywhere. 
No  one  will  trust  us  any  more. 

BEAU.    Mortimer,    what   will   become   of   us? 

Think  wrhat  the  finest  gentleman  of  his  time  is 

undergoing.     It's    enough    to    drive    one    mad. 

MORTIMER.   Have  you  nothing  more  to  sell, 

sir? 

[BEAU  rises  and  comes  to  the  table.  He  has  a 
snuff-box  in  his  hand  —  a  small  black  one,  in 
great  contrast  to  the  jewelled  box  he  carried 
in  the  earlier  scenes. 


172  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

BEAU.  My  last  snuff-box.  You  would  not 
have  me  dispose  of  that,  Mortimer — a  paltry  trifle 
that  would  bring  nothing.  No,  there  is  nothing, 
Mortimer.  Everything  belongs  to  that  wretched 
female  creature  who  dignifies  this  hovel  with  the 
name  of  lodgings. 

[Loud  knocking  is  heard  at  the  door,  which  is 
thrown  violently  open,  and  the  LANDLADY 
stalks  in.  She  is  a  very  determined-looking 

woman,  short  and  stout,  with  a  red  face  and  a 

$L  ^ 

pronounced  mustache.     She  is  dressed  in  a 

rather  short  blue  skirt,  heavy  shoes,  blue  denim 

apron,  black  blouse  with  white  neckerchief,  a 

* 

white  cap  with  broad  frill.     Stands  with  arms 
,1^    ^ 

akimbo,  looking  at  BEAU  disdainfully. 

BEAU.  Talking  of  angels  !  Good  morning,  my 
dear  madam.  So  courteous  of  you  to  come.  It 
is  not  my  reception  day,  but  you  are  always 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  173 

welcome.  Mortimer,  offer  this  good  lady  a 
chair. 

LANDLADY.  [Speaks  with  French  accent.]  Chair, 
humph !  Your  Mortimer  had  better  offer  me 
some  money,  some  rent  money,  or  I'll  have  you 
both  shown  to  the  door,  do  you  hear?  [Rapping 
on  table;  BEAU  starts  as  though  in  distress  at  each 
loud  rap.]  That's  what  I  come  to  say.  [MORTI 
MER  now  offers  her  a  chair. [  No,  I  thank  you, 
I'll  stand !  It's  my  own  chair,  and  I  will  not 
wear  it  out  by  sitting  in  it. 

BEAU.  Then  sit  in  it  yourself,  Mortimer ;  I 
cannot  permit  you  to  stand ;  you  are  tired. 
I'm  so  sorry,  my  dear  madam,  that  I  have 
nothing  to  offer  you ;  the  supplies  for  which 
Mortimer  went  out  a  short  time  ago  have  not 
yet  arrived. 

LANDLADY.    [Sneeringly.[     Supplies !     Not   yet 


i74  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

arrived !     Well,  when  they  do  they  will  not  pass 

my  door,  I'll  tell  you  that. 

[Hammers  on  table  again. 

BEAU.  [Wincing.]  Do,  my  dear  madam,  do 
help  yourself.  And  speaking  of  helping  your 
self  reminds  me,  would  you  mind  returning  some 
of  my  shirts?  I  am  sure  you  cannot  wear  them 
yourself.  Mortimer ! 

MORTIMER.   Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.  How  many  were  there  in  the  wash  last 
week? 

MORTIMER.   Twelve,  sir. 

BEAU.  Yes  —  now  if  you  wouldn't  mind  re 
turning  —  Mortimer ! 

MORTIMER.   Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.  How  many  shall  I  require  for  the  re 
mainder  of  the  week  ? 

MORTIMER.    Five,  sir. 


BEAU   BRUMMELL  i75 

BEAU.  Yes,  if  you  would  not  mind  returning 
five,  I  think  I  might  manage  for  the  remainder  of 
the  week. 

LANDLADY.    [Who     has    been    restraining    her 

wrath  with  difficulty.}     I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort, 

sir,  and  I'm  sick  of  your  fine  manners.     I  want 

more  of  the  money,  and  less  of  the  politeness. 

[With   an   exaggerated   bow,   mocking   BEAU. 

BEAU.    [Taking  snujf.}     You  mean,   my  dear 

madam,  you  want  more  of  the  politeness  and  less 

of  the  money. 

LANDLADY.  [Furiously.]  What!  You  dare 
insult  me?  Pay  me  to-day,  or  out  into  the 
street  you  go  !  Your  polite  talk  may  do  good 
there.  It  may  do  for  the  stones,  but  it  will  not 
do  for  the  flesh,  not  for  this  flesh.  Pauper! 
Pauper !  Bah ! 

[She  shouts  the  last  three  words,  and  as  she  gets  to 


i76  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

the  door  on  "Bah"  bangs  door  and  goes  out. 
At  the  word  "Pauper"  BEAU  stands  as 
though  turned  to  stone. 

BEAU.    [Very  slowly.}     Mortimer. 

MORTIMER.   Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.   What  did  she  call  me  ? 

MORTIMER.   [Half  sobbingly.]     Pauper,  sir. 

BEAU.  [Sinking  into  chair  by  right  of  table.] 
Pauper ! 

MORTIMER.   I  am  afraid,  sir,  she's  in  earnest. 

BEAU.  [Quite  simply.]  She  had  that  appear 
ance.  Mortimer,  we  must  find  the  money  some 
how,  or  I  must  leave  Calais  to-night. 

MORTIMER.  [Hesitatingly.]  That  packet  of  let 
ters,  sir,  for  which  you  have  had  so  many  offers 
from  publishers. 

BEAU.   What  packet,  Mortimer? 

MORTIMER.   Your  private  letters  of  gossip  and 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  177 

scandal  from  people  of  the  Court.  I  know  you 
have  been  averse,  sir  — 

[His  voice  dies  away,  as  BEAU,  drawing  himself 
up,  gives  him  a  withering  glance. 

BEAU.  Mortimer,  you  surprise  me.  I  thought 
you  knew  me  better.  No.  I  would  rather  suffer 
anything  than  live  by  sacrificing  the  reputation 
of  those  who  once  befriended  me.  [Opens  drawer 
in  table,  and  takes  out  packet  of  letters  tied  with  a 
faded  ribbon.  Fondles  them  for  an  instant,  —  then 
goes  to  fireplace,  kneels  and  throws  them  into  the 
flames.]  There  they  go,  Mortimer.  There  they 
go  —  and  almost  any  one  of  them  might  break  a 
heart  or  blast  a  reputation.  And  see  how  swiftly 
they  vanish,  —  as  swiftly  as  would  the  reputa 
tions  which  they  are  destroyed  to  save. 

MORTIMER.  I  was  wondering,  sir,  if  it  would  do 
to  appeal  to  His  Majesty.  He  might  overlook 


178  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

what  happened  when  he  was  Prince.     He  passes 

through  Calais  to-day,  sir. 

BEAU.  [Rising  and  coming  to  table.}  I  have 
thought  of  it,  Mortimer,  but  I  fear  it  would  be  in 
vain  —  well,  we  might  try.  Go  to  him,  Morti 
mer,  go  to  him,  and  take  him  [pauses  to  think 
what  MORTIMER  can  take,  and  feels  snuff-box  in 
pocket;  takes  it  out  and  handles  it  lovingly]  —  take 
him  this  snuff-box.  [Gives  MORTIMER  the  box. 
Hardly  has  it  left  his  hands,  however,  when  he 
reaches  out  for  it  again.]  That  is,  you  might  take 
him  the  box,  but,  perhaps,  you'd  better  not  take 
him  the  snuff.  [MORTIMER  gives  BEAU  the  box. 
BEAU  picks  up  a  paper  lying  on  the  table,  saying:] 
Bills,  bills.  [Makes  the  paper  into  a  Cornucopia, 
and  empties  the  snuff  from  the  box  into  it ;  then  taps 
box  on  the  table,  loosening  any  remaining  particles  of 
snuff  with  his  finger  ;  then  looks  at  table  and  scrapes 


BE  A  U  BRUMMELL  179 

any  remaining  there  into  the  cornucopia;  finally 
hands  box  to  MORTIMER.]     Give  it  to  him  with 
your  own  hands,  — say  Mr.  Brummell  presents  his 
compliments.     And  if  that  fails,  like  everything 
else  —  why  then  - 
MORTIMER.   And  what  then,  sir? 
BEAU.   Then,  [taking  snuff  elegantly  from  cornu 
copia]    then,    Mortimer,    I    can   starve.     And   I 
promise  you  I  shall  do  it  in  the  most  elegant  man 
ner.     And  you  —  you,  Mortimer,  must  return  to 
that  Japanese  girl ;   what's  her  name? 
MORTIMER.    [Tearfully.]     Kathleen,  sir. 
BEAU.   Yes.     Kathleen. 
[Knock  at  door.     MORTIMER  opens  it  and  starts 

back  astounded. 
MORTIMER.   Mr.  Vincent,  sir. 
[VINCENT  enters,  puffing  from  the  climb  upstairs. 
BEAU.    [Is   astonished  and   annoyed;   puts  the 


i8o  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

cornucopia  of  snuf  hastily  into  his  pocket,  and  draws 
his  dressing-gown  around  him.]  Mr.  Vincent  I 
My  dear  sir !  Why,  how  did  you  find  your  way 
here?  You  should  have  been  shown  into  the 
reception-room,  or  my  drawing-room,  or  my 
library;  you  find  me  in  my  morning-gown,  in 
my  morning-room.  I  make  a  thousand  apologies. 
VINCENT.  Don't,  don't ;  I  was  passing  through 

Calais  and  I  just  happened  in.     Phew,  you're 

pretty  high  up  here  ! 

BEAU.   Yes;    the  air  is  so  very  much  purer. 

Will   you   be    seated,  Mr.  -     -  It   is    still    Mr. 

Vincent,  is  it  not?     [To  himself:]     He  must  not 

know  my  want,  my  poverty ;   I  could  not  suffer 

this  man's  pity  or  compassion. 

VINCENT.    [Sits  at  left  of  table.]     Before  I  forget 

it,  let  me  ask  you  to  do  me  the  honor  of  dining 

with  me  to-day. 


BEAU   BRUMMELL  181 

BEAU.  [With  an  involuntary  drawing-in  of  the 
breath.}  Dine  !  At  what  hour  ? 

VINCENT.   I  always  dine  at  five  o'clock. 

BEAU.  Thank  you;  but  I  fear  you  will  have 
to  excuse  me.  I  could  not  possibly  dine  at  such 
an  hour. 

[Turns  from  table,  and  goes  up  toward  window. 

VINCENT.  [Aside.]  Not  changed  much  in 
spirit,  but  in  everything  else—  [Aloud.]  Well, 
Mr.  Brummell,  you  must  lead  a  dull  life  of  it 
here  in  Calais. 

BEAU.  [Still  at  window,  and  jauntily.}  You 
forget,  Mr.  Vincent,  that  by  living  in  Calais  I  do 
what  all  the  young  bucks  do  —  I  pass  all  my 
time  between  London  and  Paris. 

VINCENT.  Witty  as  ever,  Mr.  Brummell.  The 
sea  air  does  not  dampen  your  spirits. 

BEAU.   No;    and  I  use  none  other.     That  is 


182  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

the  reason  I  have  nothing  to  offer  you.  Had  I 
known  of  your  coming  I  should  have  been  better 
prepared  to  receive  you. 

[Comes  down  and  sits  at  right  of  table. 

VINCENT.  [Looking  around  the  room]  You 
must  be  hard  pressed  for  money,  if  you  don't 
mind  my  saying  so. 

BEAU.  [Very  hastily  and  airily,  and  rising]  Oh, 
no !  You  have  quite  a  mistaken  notion  of  my 
affairs,  because  you  miss  certain  useless  articles 
given  away  as  pledges  —  [swallows  a  word] 
ahem  —  of  gratitude  for  favors  shown  me.  I 
always  pay  a  debt,  Mr.  Vincent,  when  it's  a  social 
one. 

VINCENT.  But  those  other  debts  which  rumor 
says  are  overwhelming  you  again.  Now,  if  you'd 
let  me  pay  them  — 

BEAU.    [Sits  at  right  of  table.     In  a  very  cold 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  183 

tone.]  Thank  you,  thank  you.  No  doubt  you 
intend  to  be  kind,  but  you  are  impertinent. 
[VINCENT  turns  away  rebuffed  and  disappointed. 
BEAU  to  himself:]  No,  I  will  not  be  so  humiliated 
by  her  father.  I  would  rather  tell  a  little  lie 
instead.  [To  VINCENT.]  I  assure  you,  since 
the  renewal  of  my  friendship  with  the  Prince, 
now  His  Majesty  !  — 

[Makes    a    slight    bow    at    "His    Majesty." 

VINCENT.  [Coming  down,  delighted.]  Friend 
ship  with  His  Majesty ! 

BEAU.  What !  Has  not  rumor  told  you  that, 
too  ?  She's  a  sorry  jade,  and  sees  only  the  gloomy 
side  of  things.  Then,  I  suppose  you  have  not 
heard  that  the  King  has  pensioned  me ! 

[Takes  handkerchief  from  pocket;   it  is  full  of 
holes. 

VINCENT.   But  — 


1 84  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

BEAU.  I  see  you  still  have  that  very  unfor 
tunate  habit  of  " butting."  Why,  how,  how, 
without  a  pension,  could  I  keep  up  this  establish 
ment?  [Holding  up  the  tattered  handkerchief  in 
his  trembling  hand,  he  says,  aside:]  If  he  can  tell 
me  that  he  will  help  me  more  than  he  knows. 

VINCENT.  All  the  more  reason,  then,  why  you 
should  return  to  London  and  marry  my  daughter. 

BEAU.  Are  you  still  obstinate  on  that  point? 
Do  you  still  refuse  her  to  Reginald? 

[Knock  is  heard  at  door. 

VINCENT.  There  is  Mariana.  I  told  her  to 
join  me  here. 

BEAU.    [Rises  in  consternation,  draws  his  dress 
ing-gown  around  him,  looks  down  at  it.]     Mariana 
—  Miss  Vincent,  coming  here.     Mr.  Vincent,  one 
moment,  one  moment,  Mr.  Vincent,  one  moment. 

[Goes  hastily  to  door  at  Right,  bows  to  VINCENT, 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  185 

and  exits.  MARIANA  enters  from  hall  door 
at  Left. 

MARIANA.   Is  he  here?    Have  you  succeeded? 

VINCENT,  My  child,  we  have  heard  false 
reports  in  town.  He  has  a  pension  from  His 
Majesty.  He  is  friends  with  the  King.  Dear 
me  !  I  hope  I  haven't  offended  him. 

MARIANA.  A  pension,  papa!  [And  then  as 
she  looks  around  the  dingy  room.}  Are  you  quite 
sure  he's  not  deceiving  you? 

VINCENT.   Quite  sure ;  he  could  not  deceive  me. 

MARIANA.  Then,  father,  there  is  no  further 
need  for  me  to  make  the  sacrifice  you  demanded, 
and  which  Mr.  Brummell's  need  did  justify. 

VINCENT.  By  no  means.  I  am  all  the  more 
determined  on  it. 

MARIANA.  I  also  am  determined  now,  and  say  I 
will  not  marry  him. 


i86  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

VINCENT.   Tut,    tut !     Hush,    he's    coming  — 
he's  somewhat  changed. 

[BEAU  enters.  He  has  put  on  his  coat  —  a 
shabby,  full-skirted  brown  coat.  Has  dingy 
black  neckerchief  on.  Bows  very  low  to 
MARIANA. 

BEAU.  Good  morning,  my  dear  Miss  Vincent. 
I  trust  the  stairs  have  not  fatigued  you.  You 
should  feel  at  home,  so  high  up  among  the  angels. 
MARIANA.  [Shows  she  is  much  affected  by 
BEAU'S  changed  appearance.]  I  am  most  pleased, 
sir,  that  we  find  you  happy  with  the  world  and 
with  yourself.  We  had  feared  otherwise. 

BEAU.   I  lead  a  charmed  life;    even  now,  you 
see,  it  brings  you  to  me. 

MARIANA.    And  has  it  brought  your  nephew, 
too,  sir? 

BEAU.   That  may  be  your  privilege. 


BEAU   BRUMMELL  187 

MARIANA.  I  trust  it  may  be,  or  else  that  you 
will  bring  him  back  to  me. 

[As  she  says  this,  she  turns  away  and  goes  up 
toward  the  window  with  VINCENT,  who  shows 
he  is  not  pleased  at  this  speech.  At  this 
moment,  REGINALD  enters  quickly,  throwing  hat 
on  table  as  he  goes  by,  and  rushing  up  to 
BEAU,  holds  out  his  hand  eagerly. 
REGINALD.  Uncle ! 

BEAU.    [With  great  affection.]    Reginald !    [Then 
recollecting    himself.}     No,    Reginald,    a    glance 
of  the  eye.     Reginald,  my  boy,  you  here,  too ! 
REGINALD.   I    heard   yesterday    of    your    dis 
tresses  — 

BEAU.  [Hastily  interrupting  him.}  Do  you  not 
see  Miss  Vincent  and  her  father?  [REGINALD 
turns,  sees  MARIANA,  and  crosses  to  window  to  her, 
where  they  stand  eagerly  talking.  VINCENT  goes 


1 88  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

toward  hall  door,  evidently  very  anxious  to  get 
MARIANA  away.]  I  might  have  accepted  it 
from  him,  but  he  has  come  too  late.  This 
Vincent  shall  not  know  the  truth.  But  Regi 
nald  shall  have  Mariana,  and  Vincent  shall  give 
her  to  him. 

VINCENT.  I  think,  my  dear,  you  had  better  go 
and  wait  downstairs  for  me. 

BEAU.  No,  no,  let  Miss  Vincent  remain ;  my 
nephew  will  entertain  her,  [REGINALD  and  MARI 
ANA  at  this  begin  talking  more  confidentially]  and  I 
wish  to  consult  you  privately  in  my  room  for  a  few 
moments. 

VINCENT.  Now,  my  dear  Mr.  Brummell,  I 
must  insist  on  Mariana's  retiring. 

BEAU.  And  I  must  insist  that  Miss  Vincent 
remain.  I  see  your  manners  have  not  improved. 
I  will  not  detain  you  a  moment.  I  wish  to  ask 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  189 

your  advice.  I  hear  an  earldom  is  soon  likely  to 
become  vacant.  Now,  who's  eligible? 

VINCENT.   An  earldom ! 

BEAU.  You  know  more  about  matters  in  town 
than  I,  and  I  wish  to  be  prepared  in  case  my 
influence  should  be  needed.  Now,  what  name 
would  you  suggest? 

VINCENT.  [Gasping.]  You  honor  me,  Mr. 
Brummell. 

BEAU.  Very  likely,  but  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
gasp  so.  Indeed,  I  do  honor  you  in  asking  you 
for  your  daughter's  hand  - 

[REGINALD  and  MARIANA  start  and  look  around. 

VINCENT.    [Bows  very  low.}   Mr.  Brummell ! 

BEAU.    For  my  nephew  ! 

[REGINALD  and  MARIANA  turn  again  toward 
window,  relieved.} 

VINCENT.  My  dear  Mr.  Brummell,  you  know 


1 9o  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

I  am  opposed  to  that,  and  I  hope  to  persuade 

you  — 

BEAU.  [Significantly.]  Who  is  eligible  for  the 
earldom  —  exactly  —  and  I  think  —  mind,  I  say 
I  think  —  we  both  have  the  same  person  in  mind. 
But,  first,  I  must  persuade  you  who  is  eligible 
for  your  daughter. 

[He  bows  to  VINCENT  and  motions  him  to  door 
at  Right. 

VINCENT.  [Speaking  as  he  goes.]  Gad! 
Zounds!  An  earldom!  If  this  should  be  my 
opportunity  at  last.  Mariana  shall  marry  the 
boy  if  he  wants  it.  [Exits. 

BEAU.  [Turns  to  speak  to  MARIANA  and 
REGINALD,  and  finds  them  so  absorbed  in  each  oth^r 
they  do  not  even  see  him.  He  attracts  their  attention 
by  knocking  a  chair  on  the  floor.  They  start 
guiltily  apart.}  My  dears,  I  am  about  to  draw 


BEAU   BRUMMELL  191 

up   the  marriage  settlement,   and,   perhaps,   I'll 

make  my  will  at  the  same  time  and  leave  you 

everything.     [They  both  bow.}     I  will  now  allow 

you  to  settle  the  preliminaries  by  yourselves. 

[They  immediately  retire  again  to  the  window, 

and  are  once  more  absorbed  in  each    other. 

BEAU  stands  watching  them  for  a  few  minutes, 

then  turns  away,  puts  hand  over  his  eyes  and 

totters  of. 

MARIANA.  [Coming  down  left  of  table.]  But  I 
don't  understand,  do  you? 

REGINALD.    [Coming  down  to  her  side.]     I  don't 
desire  to.     I  take  the  fact  as  it  is.        [Kisses  her. 
MARIANA.   I  think  you  take  much  else  besides, 
sir.     Aren't  you  a  trifle  precipitate? 

REGINALD.  No,  this  is  the  first  preliminary. 
[Puts  arm  around  her  waist.}  I  think  I  shall 
linger  over  the  preliminaries. 


i92  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MARIANA.   But  has  my  father  relented? 

REGINALD.  Surely !  Or  why  did  you  come 
here? 

MARIANA.  We  heard  Mr.  Brummell  was  in 
great  distress,  and  we  came  to  help  him,  but  we 
found  the  rumors  were  false ;  his  friendship 
with  the  King  has  been  renewed. 

REGINALD.  Thank  Heaven !  Then  his  troubles 
are  at  an  end. 

MARIANA.  My  father  still  clung  to  the  idea  of 
our  marriage, 

REGINALD.   And  you  ? 

MARIANA.  That  question  is  superfluous,  sir. 
Have  I  not  allowed  the  first  preliminaries  to  be 
settled  ? 

[BEAU  and  VINCENT  enter  —  VINCENT  a  little 
ahead  of  BEAU.  Also  MORTIMER  comes  on 
dejectedly  from  hall  door. 


BEAU   BRUMMELL  193 

BEAU.    Reginald,  give  me  your  hand. 

[REGINALD  crosses  to  him. 

VINCENT.  [Who  has  crossed  over  to  left  of  table.] 
Mariana,  come  to  your  father.  Are  you  still 
bent  on  marrying  him  ? 

MARIANA.  You  mean,  papa,  that  he  is  still 
bent  on  marrying  me,  and  that  I  —  I  am  not 
unwilling. 

VINCENT.   She  is  yours,  sir. 

REGINALD.   [Coming  back  to  MARIANA.]   Mine  ! 

MORTIMER.  [Goes  up  to  BEAU  at  right  of  table, 
and  hands  him  snuff-box.]  It  was  returned  without 
a  word,  sir. 

BEAU.  [In  a  loud  tone.]  Beg  Her  Grace  to 
excuse  me  this  afternoon. 

MORTIMER.   Yes,  sir. 

REGINALD.  You  will  dine  with  us,  Uncle 
Beau,  on  board  the  vessel? 


194  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

BEAU.  Thank  you,  but  I  fear  you  will  have 
to  excuse  me,  and  now  pardon  me  if  I  ask  you  to 
retire.  I  happen  to  have  a  very  pressing  en 
gagement. 

MARIANA.  When  will  you  be  in  London,  sir. 
You  will  be  there  for  our  wedding? 

BEAU.  I  hope  so  —  and  you  must  accept  some 
little  present,  some  little  trifle,  some  little  token 
of  my  affection  and  regard  —  some  —  some  — 
remembrance.  Now  what  shall  it  be?  Eh? 
What  shall  we  say?  [They  all  look  around  the 
room,  which  is,  of  course,  bare  of  all  ornament.} 
What  do  you  really  think  you  would  like  best  — 
hum  ?  [Absently  fingers  the  snuff-box  which 
MORTIMER  brought  him.]  Ah,  yes,  this  snuff 
box  —  it  has  just  been  sent  to  me  by  —  His 
Majesty. 

[Hands   MARIANA   snuff-box,    which   she   takes 


BEAU    BRUMMELL  i95 

with  deep  curtsy  and  goes  back  to  REGINALD, 
showing  it  to  him. 

VINCENT.    [At  door   as   he   goes   out.]     I   shall 
probably  hear  from  you,  Mr.  Brummell  ? 

BEAU.     [Absently.]  Ah,     yes,     perhaps  — 

good-by.  Reginald,  [REGINALD  comes  to  him; 
BEAU  places  his  hand  on  REGINALD'S  shoulder] 
God  bless  you  — 

[REGINALD  picks  up  hat  from  table  and  crosses 
to  door.  MARIANA  comes  down,  gives  hand  to 
BEAU,  curtsies;  BEAU  raises  hand  to  his  lips. 
MARIANA  draws  it  away,  backs  toward  door, 
makes  another  curtsy,  turns  to  REGINALD,  and 
they  go  of  gaily,  apparently  talking  to  each 
other.  BEAU  puts  hand  over  eyes,  staggers 
back,  and  leans  against  table  for  support. 

THE    CURTAIN    FALLS 


THE   FOURTH  ACT 

SCENE  Two.  An  attic  room.  Sloping  roof. 
Walls  discolored  with  the  damp.  Paper  peeling 
off.  Window  at  the  back.  A  bare  deal-table 
over  near  the  Left,  with  one  chair  at  its  side. 
Another  chair  stands  down  near  the  front,  at  the 
right-hand  side.  Another  chair  stands  at  the 
back,  near  window.  There  is  a  door  at  the  Right 
and  one  also  at  the  Left. 

[BEAU  enters  at  the  right-hand  door.  Yo^t  can 
hear  him  for  some  time  before  he  enters,  stum 
bling  up  the  stairs  as  though  feeble.  He  stands 
for  a  moment  at  the  door,  bowing  very  low. 
He  is  very  shabbily  dressed  —  his  hat  battered 
—  his  boots  gray. 

106 


BEAU   BRUMMELL  197 

BEAU.  I  thought  I  saw  the  Prince  there, 
[pointing  to  chair]  there !  The  boys  mocked  me 
in  the  streets  —  they  threw  stones  at  me.  No 
wonder ;  there  has  been  no  varnish  on  my  boots 
for  days.  They  refused  to  give  me  a  cup  of 
coffee  or  a  macaroon.  They  would  rather  see 
me  starve  —  and  starve  so  in  rags. 

[Sits  in  chair. 

MORTIMER.  [Enters  from  door  at  Left.}  Shall 
I  announce  dinner,  sir  ? 

BEAU.  [Starting.]  No,  Mortimer,  I  have  only 
just  come  in,  and  you  forget  this  is  Thursday, 
when  I  always  entertain.  [Sinks  into  a  reverie. 

MORTIMER.  Poor  Mr.  Brummell !  He's  get 
ting  worse  and  worse.  Lack  of  food  is  turning 
his  head  instead  of  his  stomach.  But  I  don't 
dare  oppose  him  when  he's  this  way. 

BEAU.   Mortimer ! 


1 98  BEAU   BRUMMELL 

MORTIMER.    Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.  I  could  get  nothing  for  us  to  eat, 
Mortimer,  nothing  —  and  they  refused  to  wash 
my  cravats ! 

MORTIMER.  Oh,  Mr.  Brummell,  sir,  what  shall 
we  do?  We  will  starve,  sir. 

BEAU.  [Severely.]  Mortimer,  you  forget  your 
self!  Who  has  called  during  my  absence? 

MORTIMER.  [Goes  up  to  the  window-ledge,  and 
brings  down  an  old  broken  plate  with  a  few  dirty 
cards.}  These  cards  won't  last  much  longer.  I 
have  been  bringing  him  the  same  ones  on  Thurs 
day  for-  the  last  year.  [BEAU  has  fallen  asleep.} 
Mr.  Brummell,  sir!  Mr.  Brummell,  sir! 

[He  puts  plate  directly  in  front  0/BEAU. 
BEAU.    [Starts    and    looks    at   plate.}      The  - 
the  —  card  tray. 
MORTIMER.   We've  —  lent  it,  sir! 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  199 

[He  pushes  cards  forward  with  his  thumb  and 
finger,  as  BEAU  takes  them  one  by  one  and  lays 
them  back  on  plate. 

BEAU.  Duchess  of  Leamington  —  thank  good 
ness,  I  was  out.  Lord  Manly  —  do  we  owe  him 
anything  ? 

MORTIMER.   No,  sir. 

BEAU.  Why  not?  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  —  and  I 
missed  her  —  no  matter  !  They  will  all  dine  here 
this  evening. 

MORTIMER.    [Taking  plate  back  to  ledge.]    Dine 
—  that's  the  way  we  eat  —  the  names  of  things  — 
but  it  is  very  weakening  —  very  weakening. 
BEAU.   Mortimer ! 
MORTIMER.   Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.  Light  the  candelabra.  [Begins  to  sing 
very  low  in  a  quavering  voice:]  "She  Wore  a 
Wreath  of  Roses." 


200  BEAU    BRUMMELL 

MORTIMER.  Yes,  sir.  [He  goes  to  window-ledge, 
and  brings  down  to  table  two  pewter  candlesticks  with 
a  little  piece  of  a  candle  in  each  one.  He  lights  both 
and  then  with  a  quick  look  at  BEAU  blows  out  one.} 
He'll  never  know,  and  if  it  burns,  there  will 
be  none  to  light  the  next  time. 

BEAU.    Mortimer ! 

MORTIMER.   Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.   Is  my  hat  on? 

MORTIMER.    [Choking  back  a  sob.]    Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.  [Lifts  hat  with  elegant  gesture;  his  hand 
drops  and  hat  falls  to  the  floor;  lie  rises.]  Morti 
mer,  I  hear  carriage  wheels  —  carriage  wheels ! 
Observe  me,  Mortimer,  am  I  quite  correct?  Are 
there  creases  in  my  cravat  ?  I  would  not  wish 
to  make  creases  the  fashion. 

MORTIMER.  Mr.  Brummell,  sir,  you  are  quite 
correct. 


BEAU    BRUMMELl  201 

BEAU.  To  your  post.  Bid  the  musicians  play. 
[Bows  as  though  welcoming  guest.]  Ah,  Duchess, 
you  are  always  welcome !  And  in  pink !  You 
come  like  the  rosy  morning  sunshine  into  the 
darkness  of  my  poor  lodgings.  Lord  Manly! 
And  sober  —  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction.  The 
Duchess's  smiles  should  have  intoxicated  you. 
Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  —  Your  Majesty !  [Bows  very 
low.]  Pray,  sir,  honor  my  poor  arm.  Permit 
me  to  conduct  Your  Majesty  to  a  chair,  whilst  I 
receive  my  less  distinguished  guests.  [Walks  to 
chair  with  imaginary  guest  on  his  arm.]  My  dear 
Lady  Farthingale,  how  do  you  do?  As  beautiful 
and  as  charming  as  ever.  [Backs  up  a  little  and 
knocks  a  chair  over.}  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons  ! 
My  dear  Lady  Cecilie,  how  you  have  grown  and 
how  beautiful.  [With  vacant  stare.]  Shall  we 
dine?  Dine!  Shall  we  dine?  Permit  me  to 


202  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

escort  Your  Majesty  to  the  table  where  we  dine ! 
[Goes  to  chair  and  escorts  the  imaginary  king  to  the 
table.]  Yours  is  the  honor  and  mine,  Lady  Gecilie, 
my  charming  vis-a-vis.  Mariana  —  Mariana  - 
always  nearest  my  heart  —  always.  Mortimer 
-  Mortimer ! 

MORTIMER.  [Who  has  been  leaning  against  the 
wall  with  head  on  arm.]  Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.  His  Majesty  waits  !  [Bows  to  Right  and 
Left.]  Enchanted!  Enchanted!  [Waits  until, 
apparently,  they  are  all  seated,  and  then  sits.]  I 
trust  you  will  find  these  oysters  agreeable ;  they 
arrived  but  this  morning  from  Ostend.  Bird's- 
nest  soup.  It  is  very  hot.  I  am  very  particular 
to  have  the  soup  hot  on  these  cold  evenings.  This 
is  very  good  melon.  • 

MORTIMER.  [Who  has  been  pretending  to  pass 
things.]  Melon,  sir. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  203 

BEAU.  Duchess,  I  trust  you  are  fond  of  ortolans 
stuffed  with  truffles.  Brown  —  and  glazed.  My 
chef  —  my  chef  —  [Voice  dies  away. 

MORTIMER.  His  chef !  If  only  we  had  some 
thing  to  cook,  I  should  not  mind  the  chef. 

[Sinks  in  chair. 

BEAU.  Mariana,  let  me  fill  your  glass,  and  drink 
with  me.  My  dear.  My  own  always.  My 
only  dear  one  ! 

[His  head  sinks  on  chest,  and  he  falls  asleep. 

KATHLEEN.  [After  a  pause,  putting  her  head 
in  at  the  door  and  saying  very  softly:]  And  may  I 
come  in? 

MORTIMER.  [Rising  in  bewilderment.]  Kath 
leen  !  And  has  it  gone  to  my  head,  too  ? 

KATHLEEN.  [Half  crying.]  No,  but  to  my  heart! 
—  or  to  yours  —  for  they've  gotten  that  mixed 
I  don't  know  which  is  which.  [They  embrace. 


204  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MORTIMER.  [In  alarm,  fearing  BEAU  may  wake.] 
Hush! 

KATHLEEN.  Miss  Mariana  that  was,  Mrs. 
Reginald  Courtenay  that  is,  is  out  in  the  hall,  and 
him  with  her. 

[MARIANA  and  REGINALD  come  in  at  door. 

MARIANA.   Is  he  here  ? 

[Gives  a  low,   horrified  exclamation  at  BEAU'S 
changed  appearance. 

MORTIMER.  Yes,  madam,  but  I  fear  the  sud 
den  surprise  of  seeing  you  will  kill  him. 

REGINALD.  But  the  King  is  in  town  with  his 
suite.  We  came  with  him,  and  they  followed  us 
here  immediately. 

MORTIMER.   The  King ! 

MARIANA.  Yes,  Mortimer ;  your  master's  and 
your  troubles  are  over. 

[MARIANA  and  REGINALD  cross  to  other  side  of 
table,  away  from  door. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  205 

KATHLEEN.  [Aside  to  MORTIMER,  as  she  goes 
up  to  window.}  I  am  not  so  sure  but  yours  are 
just  beginning. 

KING.  [Appearing  at  door*\  Zounds  -  -  is 
this  — 

MORTIMER.  [Bowing  very  low.}  Your  Majesty, 
I  beg  your  pardon,  but  —  sh  —  sh  — 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  [At  door.}  Dear  me,  you 
don't  - 

KING.    [Turning  to  her.}     Sh  —  sh  - 

DUCHESS.    But  how  - 

KING.  [Goes  through  same  pantomime,  turn 
ing,  putting  finger  on  lip  and  saying:}  Sh  ! 

LADY  FARTHINGALE.   Where  is  Mr.  Brummell? 

KING.    [As  before.}     Sh  !  Sh! 

LORD  MANLY.   Well - 

KING.    [As  before.]     Sh  !  Sh  ! 

MORTIMER.   If  Your  Majesty  will  pardon  me,  I 


200  BEAU    BRUMMELL 

think  I  could  suggest  something.  Mr.  Brummell 
has  just  been  imagining  you  were  all  dining  with 
him.  I  think  if  you  were  to  take  your  places 
at  the  table,  when  he  saw  you  the  truth  would 
gradually  come  to  him. 

[They  all  sit  —  KING  at  Left,  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN 
next,  then  the  DUCHESS.  MARIANA  and 
REGINALD  are  at  the  Right. 

MORTIMER.  Mr.  Brummell !  [Louder,  as  BEAU 
does  not  move.}  Mr.  Brummell,  sir! 

BEAU.  Duchess,  let  me  send  you  this  saddle  of 
venison ;  it's  delicious.  [Wakes,  looks  around,  and 
sees  MARIANA.]  Mariana  !  Mariana !  Reginald  ! 
[They  come  to  his  side.}  Pardon  me  for  not 
rising  ;  T  think  I  must  have  forgotten  my  manners. 
You  won't  leave  me,  Mariana?  You  won't  leave 
me,  will  you,  will  you? 

MARIANA.   No,  Mr.  Brummell. 


BEAU   BRUMMRLL  207 

BEAU.  [Sees  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.]  Mrs.  St. 
Aubyn,  you  —  you  forgive? 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  [Very  gently}  And  forget, 
Mr.  Brummell. 

BF.AU.  [Sees  the  KING.]  Your  Majesty  !  Mor 
timer  ! 

MORTIMER.   Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.   Is  this  real  —  is  it  —  is  it? 

KING.  Yes,  Beau,  you've  hidden  from  all 
of  us  long  enough  —  but  now  we've  found  you 
we  don't  mean  to  lose  you.  We  sup  with  you 
to-night  ;  to-morrow  you  dine  in  London 
with  us. 

BEAU.  Dine !  [Drawing  in  his  breath  appre 
ciatively.]  Dine  —  [Then  remembering.]  At  what 
hour? 

MORTIMER.  [Bowing  and  whispering  to  the 
KING.]  At  eight,  Your  Majesty,  at  eight ! 


208  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

KING.    [With    a    nod    of    understanding.}     At 
eight  o'clock. 

BEAU.   Mortimer,  have  I  any  other  engage 
ment? 

MORTIMER.    [With  fear  and  trembling.]     No  — 
oh,  no,  sir ! 

BEAU.   I  shall  have  much  pleasure.     Mortimer ! 

MORTIMER.   Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.   Mortimer ! 

MORTIMER.   Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.    Should  anybody  call,  say  I  have  a  very 
pressing  engagement  with  —  with  —  His  Majesty. 

[His  head  falls,  and  he  sinks  into  chair,  supported 
by  MARIANA  and  REGINALD.     All  rise. 

THE   CURTAIN   FALLS 


LOVERS'    LANE 

A   PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 


COPYRIGHT,  1915, 

BY  LITTLE,    BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 
AND  ALICE  M.   FITCH. 


This  play  is  fully  protected  by  the  copyright  law,  all  requirements 
of  which  have  been  complied  with.  In  its  present  printed  form  it  is 
dedicated  to  the  reading  public  only,  and  no  performance  of  it,  either 
professional  or  amateur,  may  be  given  without  the  written  permission 
of  the  owner  of  the  acting  rights,  who  may  be  addressed  in  care  of  the 
publishers,  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 


LONERS'   LANE 


ACT      I.  THE  PARSONAGE. 

ACT    II.  THE  MAIN  STREET. 

ACT  III.  AUTUMN  IN  THE  ORCHARD. 

ACT  IV.  SPRING  IN  THE  ORCHARD. 


AT  EDDVSVILLE. 


THE  PERSONS  IN   THE  PLAY 

THE  REV.  THOMAS   SINGLETON.     The  Minister,  graduate 

of  Amherst,  '86. 

HERBERT  WOODBRIDGE.     From  New  York. 
UNCLE   BILL.      The  church  bell-ringer;    of  the   Minister's 

household. 

HOSEA  BROWN.      The  storekeeper. 
MR.  SKILLIG.     Manager  of  the  Opera  House. 
DEACON  STEELE.     Head  Deacon  of  the  Church. 

BILLY    ] 

\      Eddysville  boys. 
HARRY  J 

DICK  WOODBRIDGE. 

MARY  LARKIN.     From  the  Student?  League  of  New  York. 

MRS.  HERBERT  WOODBRIDGE.      The  Alto  of  the  choir  ;  later 

of  the  Minister's  household. 
SIMPLICITY  JOHNSON.     From  the  Orphan  Asylum  ;   of  the 

Minister's  household. 

Miss  MATTIE.      The  Minister's  housekeeper. 
AUNT   MELISSY.     From   the  poorhouse ;    of  the   Minister's 

household. 
BRIDGET.      The  cook  from  the  hospital;    of  the  Minister's 

household. 


2i4  THE  PERSONS  IN   THE  PLAY 

MRS.   LANE.     Herbert  WoodbridgJs  sister,  from  New  York. 

MRS.   HOSEA  BROWN.     Social  leader  of  Eddysville. 

Miss  MOLLY  MEALEY.     The  schoolmistress. 

MRS.   STEELE.     Chairwoman  of  the  Sewing  Circle.- 

MRS.   JENNINGS.     The  dressmaker,  with  latest  styles  from 

Boston  ;  goes  twice  a  year  to  the  City. 
BESSIE  STEELE.     A  schoolgirl. 


Produced  at  the  Manhattan  Theatre,  New  York, 
on  February  6,  1901,  with  the  following  cast :  — 

The  Rev.  Thomas  Singleton Ernest  Hastings 

Herbert  Woodbridge Edward  J.  Radcliffe 

Uncle  Bill R.  L.  Stockwell 

Hosea  Brown Frank  Hatch 

Mr.  Skillig Charles  W.  Swain 

Deacon  Steele Julian  Barton 

Billy William  Betts 

Harry James  Coyle 

Dick  Woodbridge Herbert  Halliday 

Mary  Larkin Nanette  Comstock 

Mrs.  Herbert  Woodbridge Brandon  Douglas 

Simplicity  Johnson Millie  James 

Aunt  Melissy Agnes  Findlay 

Mattie Sadie  Stringham 

Bridget Lizzie  Conway 

Mrs.  Lane Rachel  Sterling 

Mrs.  Hosea  Brown Zelda  Sears 

Miss  Molly  Mealey Emily  Wakeman 

Mrs.  Steele Annie  Mifflin 

Mrs.  Jennings „ Lillian  Lee 

Bessie  Steele  .       Lillian  Sinnott 


ACT  I 

SCENE:     The   MINISTER'S    Study.     A    pleasant, 
sunny  room.     The  MINISTER'S  desk,  littered  with 
interrupted    work,    and    his    chair    are    by    the 
window,  Right.     Left  is  a  "  parlor  organ"     In 
the  Centre  is  a  large  round  table,  with  a  green 
wool  cover,  a  "  student's  lamp,"  books,  a  ruler, 
a  vase  of  garden  flowers,  etc.     A  rocking-chair, 
two  small  chairs  and  a  low  stool  are  beside  it. 
Back,  between  two  windows,  a  low  bookcase.     In 
front  of  one  window,  toward  Right  back,  is  a  hair 
cloth  sofa.      In  the  other   sunny   window  is  a 
green   "shelf"  flower  stand,  filled  with   pots  of 
geranium,  fuchsia,  and  heliotrope,  etc.     Cheap, 
217 


218  LOVERS'  LANE 

but  very  clean,  lace  curtains  are  "  looped  back  "  at 
the  windows.      On  the  walls  are  a  few  engrav 
ings,  and  a  faded  family  photograph  in  an  oval 
gilt  frame.     There  is  an  air  of  cheerfulness  and 
comfort.      Enter    Miss    MATTIE,  followed    by 
BRIDGET,  who  stops,  her  face  hidden  in  her  apron, 
weeping.     MATTIE  talking  in  a  steady  stream. 
MATTIE.     Don't  answer  me  back,  Bridget.     I 
won't  listen  to  you.     Do  you  hear  me?     I  have 
told  you  time  and  time  again  I  won't  have  that 
child  in  the  kitchen.    For  goodness'  sake,  where  is 
she?      [Calls]      Simplicity!      Simplicity!    [Enter 
SIMPLICITY,  weeping]    Oh,  here  you  are!    Well, 
come  right  along,   you   naughty   girl !     I   want 
you  to  see  what  your  disobedience  has  brought 
to  others  as  well  as  yourself  and  —  Don't  break 
in  while  I  am  talking,  Bridget  —  and  put  your 
apron  down.     [BRIDGET  drops  her  apron  for  the 


LOVERS'  LANE  219 

first  time  from  her  face  and  shows  it  distorted  with 
grief]    And  stop  making  faces  at  me,  Bridget. 

BRIDGET.  [Crying]  I'm  not  making  faces, 
ma'am,  I'm  waping. 

MATTIE.  Don't  answer  me  back.  Ain't  you 
ashamed  of  yourself  to  let  that  child  stay  in  the 
kitchen  when  you  know  she's  been  forbidden  to 
go  there?  What  was  she  doing? 

BRIDGET.  Oh,  plaze,  ma'am,  you'll  discharge 
me  if  I  tell  you. 

MATTIE.     I'll  discharge  you  if  you  don't. 

BRIDGET.  Oh,  well,  then,  ma'am,  I  was  bakin' 
her  a  wee  bit  of  cake, 

MATTIE.  [Coming  to  the  front  of  the  table  — 
staggered]  What!  You  were,  were  you?  Do 
you  know  that's  stealing?  Bridget  O'Hara ! 
And  you  living  here  under  the  same  roof  with 
Mr.  Singleton !  —  and  listening  to  his  sermons 


220  LOVERS'  LANE 

every    Sunday !     Bridget,    you    take    a    week's 
notice. 

BEIDGET.   Thank  you,  ma'am,  but  — 

MATTIE.  Stop  asking  me  to  take  you  back. 
Go  pack  your  trunk  and  don't  you  let  me  set 
eyes  on  your  face  again  as  long  as  I  live. 

[BRIDGET  goes  out. 

BRIDGET.  [From  outside.]  You  'won't  let  me 
get  a  word  in  edgeways. 

MATTIE.  [To  SIMPLICITY.]  Come  here !  [SIM 
PLICITY  comes  toward  her,  sucking  her  thumb.] 
Take  your  thumb  out  of  your  mouth.  Nice 
thing  for  a  girl  of  eleven  to  be  doing.  Sucking 
your  thumb  !  Now  ain't  it  ? 

SIMPLICITY.  [Backing  away — guardedly.]  Yes'm. 

MATTIE.    [Following.]     I  said  no ! 

SIMPLICITY.     Yes'm. 

MATTIE.   Say  no. 


LOVERS'   LANE  221 

SIMPLICITY.   Noi 

MATTIE.   Ma'am ! 

SIMPLICITY.   Ma'am. 

[Backing  to  organ  and  dodging  behind  it. 

MATTIE.   Land,  where  is  your  tongue? 

[Following  around  the  table. 

SIMPLICITY.   Where  my  thumb  was. 

MATTIE.  Don't  you  dare  to  be  saucy  to  me ! 
[SIMPLICITY  keeps  on  dodging  Miss  MATTIE.]  Why 
don't  you  say  something? 

SIMPLICITY.  [Stops  at  the  table  and  sneaks  away 
the  rider.]  Ain't  got  nothing  to  say. 

MATTIE.  [Up  in  the  air.]  Say  you're  sorry. 
Ain't  you  sorry? 

SIMPLICITY.     No,  ma'am.        [Sees  her  mistake. 

MATTIE.  What !  Very  well,  we'll  see  if  we  can 
make  you  sorry.  [Pointing  toward  the  table.]  Get 
me  the  ruler. 


222  LOVERS'  LANE 

SIMPLICITY.   'Tain't  there. 

MATTIE.  How  do  you  know  it  ain't  ?  [Goes  to 
the  table.]  Where  is  it? 

[Searching  the  table. 

SIMPLICITY.  [Keeping  the  ruler  behind  her.} 
Burnt  up. 

MATTIE.  What! 

SIMPLICITY.   To  help  bake  the  cake  with. 

MATTIE.  You  impudent  child!  Gome  here. 
[She  leans  on  the  desk-table  and  takes  of  her 
slipper.]  Why  ain't  you  sorry? 

SIMPLICITY.  [Crying.]  'Cause  Pops  told  me  to 
go  to  the  kitchen  and  tell  Bridget  to  make  the 
cake. 

MATTIE.   My  brother  Tom  did? 

SIMPLICITY.   Yes,  ma'am. 

MATTIE.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  be 
fore? 


LOVERS'   LANE  223 

SIMPLICITY.  [Crying.]  'Cause  you  didn't  ask 
me. 

MATTIE.   Why  didn't  Bridget  tell  me?  . 

SIMPLICITY.  'Cause  you  didn't  give  her  a 
chance.  [MATTIE  shows  temper.}  Bridget  says  the 
only  way  she  could  ever  answer  you  back  is  by 
speaking  first. 

MATTIE.  [Advancing.]  Oh  !  she  said  that,  did 
she?  [Drops  her  slipper  on  the  table  and  starts 
for  the  door.}  I  was  going  to  take  her  back,  but 
I  won't  now. 

[Steps  on  imaginary  pin.  SIMPLICITY  picks  up 
the  slipper. 

SIMPLICITY.   Won't  you? 

MATTIE.   [Almost  at  the  door.}     No,  I  won't! 

SIMPLICITY.   Won't  you? 

[She  hides  the  slipper  behind  her  back,  and 

looks  out  of  the  window. 


224  LOVERS'   LANE 

MATTIE.   No,  I  won't. 

SIMPLICITY.  Won't  you?  Oh,  there's  company 
coming ! 

MATTIE.  [Hopping  around  on  one  foot.]  Com 
pany  ?  Good  gracious !  Where  is  my  slipper  ? 

[She  falls  on  her  hands  and  knees,  hunting  under 
the  table. 

SIMPLICITY.  [Dancing  with  glee.]  If  I  find  your 
slipper  for  you,  will  you  take  Bridget  back? 

MATTIE.  [On  her  knees,  searching  all  around.] 
No,  I  won't.  [Getting  up.]  I  believe  you've  got 
that  slipper.  Have  you  ? 

SIMPLICITY.   Yes,  ma'am. 

MATTIE.  For  the  land's  sake  !  Give  it  to  me  at 
once.  [Starting  after  SIMPLICITY. 

SIMPLICITY.  [Dodging  away  from  MATTIE  to  the 
window.]  Not  unless  you  take  Bridget  back.  I 
guess  they're  city  folks. 


LOVERS'  LANE  225 

MATTIE.  You  give  me  that  slipper,  you  wicked 
girl.  [Running  after  SIMPLICITY.]  I'll  tell  the 
Minister,  just  as  soon  as  he  comes  in,  to  punish 
you  —  and  for  fear  he  won't  do  it,  I'll  do  it  myself. 

[She  chases  SIMPLICITY  across  the  room.     Enter 
MINISTER. 

MINISTER.  Why  Mattie!  Mattie !  What's 
the  matter  ? 

SIMPLICITY.   I've  been  bad ! 

[She  throws  the  slipper  at  MATTIE. 

MINISTER.   What !     Again  ? 

SIMPLICITY.   Yes,  sir.     Again  ! 

MATTIE.  [Putting  on  her  slipper.]  You'd  bet 
ter  make  her  learn  another  chapter  in  the  Bible, 
Tom. 

MINISTER.  My  dear  Mattie,  if  we  always  pun 
ished  her  that  way,  she  would  soon  know  the 
whole  Old  Testament,  and  be  tripping  you  and 


226  LOVERS'  LANE 

me  up.     That's  all  right,  Mattie.     [He  sits  down 

at  the  table.]     I'll  punish  her. 

MATTIE.  [Comes  over  to  him.]  I'm  sort  of  sus 
picious  of  your  punishments,  Tom.  But  first  I 
want  to  tell  you  about  Bridget.  She  — is  - 
so  — 

MINISTER.  [Waving  her  away.]  Not  now! 
Not  now!  I  must  get  to  work  on  to-morrow's 
sermon.  I  haven't  begun  it  yet. 

MATTIE.   What's  the  subject,  Tom? 

MINESTER.  [Thoughtfully.]  "  Is  there  an  actual 
Purgatory  or  not?" 

SIMPLICITY.  Course  there  is.  [Going  over  to 
him.]  You  just  ask  the  matron  of  the  Asylum 
where  I  used  to  be.  What  she  don't  know  about 
Purgatory  ain't  worth  talking  about. 

MATTIE.  [Aghast.]  Why,  Simplicity!  You 
don't  know  what  you're  saying. 


LOVERS'   LANE  227 

SIMPLICITY.  Don't  I?  Guess  you'd  think  so  if 
you'd  been  at  the  Asylum. 

MATTIE.  Tom,  you  punish  that  child  before 
you  begin.  It  will  tone  you  up. 

[Goes  out. 

MINISTER.  Come  here.  [Turns  his  chair  to 
ward  SIMPLICITY.]  Come  here  and  be  punished. 

SIMPLICITY.  [Going  over  to  the  MINISTER.] 
Pops  !  I'm  awful  sorry. 

MINISTER.  Then  kiss  me.  [She  kisses  him.] 
There,  now  you're  punished.  What  was  it  you 
did? 

SIMPLICITY.  Miss  Mattie  discharged  Bridget, 
and  I  teased  her  to  make  her  take  her  back ! 

MINISTER.  Was  that  it?  Then  you  may  kiss 
me  again,  Miss.  [SIMPLICITY  kisses  him  and  sits 
down  beside  him.]  And  now  say,  "I'll  try  not  to 
tease  Miss  Mattie  any  more." 


228  LOVERS'   LANE 

SIMPLICITY.  I've  said  it  once  before,  to-day, 
Pops,  but  it  don' ';  seem  to  do  much  good. 

MINISTER.  I  guess  it  does  as  much  good  as 
learning  a  chapter  in  the  Bible,  and  you  can  say  it 
quicker.  Come  on  now. 

SIMPLICITY.  I'll  try  not  'to  tease  Miss  Mattie 
any  more. 

MINISTER.   And  try  hard !     You  try  hard ! 

SIMPLICITY.  Pops,  is  Miss  Mattie  really  your 
•  sister  ? 

MINISTER.   No. 

SIMPLICITY.   Then  what  is  she? 

[Sprawling  on  table. 

MINISTER.  She  is  my  brother-in-law's  second 
wife's  step- sister. 

SIMPLICITY.   [Confused.]    Oh  — 

[Rises;    goes  all  around  the  table,  looking  under 
the  edge  for  chewing-gum. 


LOVERS'   LANE  229 

MINISTER.  Yes,  and  she  doesn't  get  on  with  her 
step-siste*,  my  brother-in-law's  second  wife,  so 
that  she  hasn't  any  other  home,  and  lives  here 
with  me.  Now  I  must  get  to  work  on  my  sermon. 

SIMPLICITY.  [Back  of  MINISTER,  with  her  arms 
around  his  neck,}  Then  you've  just  given  her  a 
home,  as  you've  taken  in  Aunt  Melissy  and  Uncle 
Bill  and  me,  Pops? 

MINISTER.  She  says  it's  you  and  Uncle  Bill 
and  Aunt  Melissy  who've  taken  me  in.  There ! 
There!  I  must  get  to  work!  [Starts  to  write, 
SIMPLICITY  looking  over  his  shoulder.]  I  don't 
believe  there's  a  Purgatory,  Simple. 

SIMPLICITY.  Don't  you,  Pops?  [Glancing 
around,  as  if  looking  for  Miss  MATTIE.]  Then 
where  will  Miss  Mattie  go  when  she  dies? 

MINISTER.  Simplicity !  Now  you  stop  —  stop 
-  or  I'll  punish  you  again.  I  must  get  to  work  ! 


23o  LOVERS'   LANE 

[Enter  BRIDGET,  sniffling. 
BRIDGET.   If  you  plaze,  sorr,  —  • 

MINISTER.   What  is  it,  Bridget? 
BRIDGET.    [Sniffling.]     If   you    plaze,    sorr,    a 
Committee  from  the  Choir's  outside  in  the  hall 
waitin'  to  see  you. 

MINISTER.   I'm  very  busy  just  now,  but  you  can 
show  them  in,  Bridget. 
BRIDGET.   Yes,  sorr. 

[Goes  out. 

MINISTER.   We  must  do  something  for  that 
asthma  of  Bridget's. 

SIMPLICITY.  'Tain't  asthma  —  it's  feelings  - 
'cause  Miss  Mattie  discharged  her.  Guess 
Bridget  believes  there's  a  Hell. 

[BRIDGET  comes  back,  showing  in  COMMITTEE. 
BRIDGET.   Come  right  into  the  study,  plaze  — 

[Sniffling. 


LOVERS'  LANE  231 

[Enter    MRS.    BROWN    and    Miss    MEALEY. 

BRIDGET  goes  out. 

MRS.  BROWN.    Good  morning,  Dr.  Singleton ! 
[Goes  over  to  the  organ  and  sits  on  the  stool. 
Miss  MEALEY.   Good  morning  ! 
SIMPLICITY.   Hello! 
[She  sits  on  a  low  stool  on  the  other  side  of  the 

table  so  that  it  hides  her  from  the  others. 
MINISTER.    [Rising.]     Good  morning.     Won't 
you  sit  down?     Won't  you  sit  down  —  [As  Miss 
MEALEY  passes  him.]     Your  new  hat's  very  be 
coming,  Miss  Molly. 

Miss  MEALEY.  [Sits  in  the  easy  chair.]  Thanks. 
But  it  seems  to  me  as  if  you  never  noticed  what 
I  had  on. 

MINISTER.   On  the  contrary,  Miss  Molly,  every 
thing! 
MRS.  BROWN.   Good  gracious ! 


232  LOVERS'   LANE 

Miss  MEALEY.  [To  MRS.  BROWN.]  I  think, 
my  dear,  we  had  better  speak  at  once  of  the 
matter  that  brought  us. 

MRS.  BROWN.  Yes.  I  suppose,  Minister,  we 
are  keeping  you  from  finishing  to-morrow's  ser 
mon  ? 

MINISTER.  [Coming  up  between  the  ladies; 
smiling.}  No  —  from  beginning  it. 

Miss  MEALEY.   What  is  the  subject? 

MINISTER.  "Is  there  an  actual  Purgatory  or 
not?" 

Miss  MEALEY.   S-w-ee-t! 

MRS.  BROWN.   Well,  I  hope   there   isn't,  for 
my  husband's  sake!      But  [rising]  what  we've 
come    for    is  — -  [Notices    SIMPLICITY.]  —  Oh  — 
[Whispering  to  MINISTER.]     Please  send  that  child 
out. 

MINISTER.   Oh,  yes.     Simple ! 


LOVERS'   LANE  233 

SIMPLICITY.   Pops ! 

MINISTER.   You  go  out  for  a  little  while. 

SIMPLICITY.   What  for  ? 

MINISTER.  For  fun.  [SIMPLICITY  goes  out. 
Turning  to  the  COMMITTEE.]  Is  it  anything  seri 
ous? 

Miss  MEALEY.  Very !  Mrs.  Woodbridge  — 
our  — 

MRS.  BROWN.  [Interrupting.]  Our  soprana, 
turns  out  to  be  a  reg  — 

Miss  MEALEY.  [Rises  —  interrupting.]  Per 
fect  snake  in  the  grass.  Of  course  we  all  know 
she  had  set  her  cap  for  you. 

MINISTER.    Oh,  come  now,  Miss  Molly. 

MRS.  BROWN.  [In  a  loud  whisper  to  Miss 
MEALEY.]  Don't  be  a  fool,  Molly  Mealey  — 
show  him  your  jealousy  that  way !  Of  course 
Molly  has  had  to  put  up  with  her  city  clothes  and 


234  LOVERS'   LANE 

we've  had  to  put  up  with  her  city  airs,  and  now 

it's  got  to  end. 

MINISTER.  Why,  I  thought  everyone  loved 
Mrs.  Woodbridge. 

Miss  MEALEY.   Oh,  all  the  men  do. 

MRS.  BROWN.  You  must  discharge  her  from 
the  choir. 

MINISTER.  I!  Why,  I  couldn't  do  such  a 
thing,  and  I  wouldn't.  Why,  she  hasn't  a  cent 
in  the  world,  except  her  salary,  to  support  herself 
and  her  poor  little  lame  boy. 

Miss  MEALEY.  [Rising  and  going  up  to  him.} 
Well,  if  you  don't  discharge  her,  we  will ! 

MINISTER.   No  !     What  has  she  done  ? 

MRS.  BROWN.  She's  divorced  from  her  hus 
band  !  That's  what  she's  done  ! 

Miss  MEALEY    A   divorcee/ 

MINISTER.  Well,  maybe  her  husband  wasn't 
all  that  he  should  be. 


LOVERS'   LANE  235 

Miss  MEALEY.  Humph!  More  likely  she 
wasn't.  They  say  she  was  an  actress  I 

MRS.  BROWN.  Sung  and  danced  in  one  of  the 
continual  performances ! 

MINISTER.   I'd  like  to  have  seen  her. 

[Miss    MEALEY    and    MRS.    BROWN    are    as 
tounded. 

Miss  MEALEY  and  MRS.  BROWN.     What ! 

MRS.  BROWN.  If  she  remains  in  the  choir  / 
resign  now. 

[Hitting  a  book  on  the  table  with  a  bang. 

Miss  MEALEY.  There  goes  the  mezzer  sopra- 
ner,  and  the  whole  choir  has  agreed  to  do  the 
same  thing. 

MINISTER.  But,  Mrs.  Brown,  you  know  what  a 
splendid  young  woman  she  is.  She  lives  with 
you! 

MRS.  BROWN.  Oh,  no,  she  doesn't.  [To  MIN 
ISTER.]  I  have  a  family  of  boys  to  bring  up. 


236  LOVERS'   LANE 

Besides,  I  have  always  suspected  Brown  was  a  little 

too  polite  to  her.     She's  packing  her  trunks  now. 

MINISTER.  Really,  ladies,  you  take  my  breath 
away. 

MRS.  BROWN.  Well,  she  took  our'n.  [Both  go 
to  the  MINISTER.]  Now  which  is  it?  If  we  go, 
the  organist  goes  with  us.  Mrs.  Canning  says  all 
the  wealth  of  the  Indies  couldn't  make  her  play 
accompaniments  for  a  divorced  voice.  , 

Miss  MEALEY.   If  she  sings  —  remember. 

MRS.  BROWN  and  Miss  MEALEY.  We  don't! 
[Going  to  the  door.]  Good  morning ! 

MINISTER.  If  you're  going  home  now,  you 
might  send  her  over  to  me  —  will  you  ? 

MRS.  BROWN.  I'll  go  straight  home,  and  she 
can  come  here  before  looking  for  new  rooms. 

Miss  MEALEY.  [At  the  door.]  Don't  be  afraid 
of  hurting  her  feelings. 


LOVERS'   LANE  237 

MINISTER.   No. 

MRS.  BROWN.   We  haven't  been. 

MINISTER.   So  I  imagine.     Good-by ! 

MRS.  BROWN.    Good-by.  [Goes  out. 

MINISTER.    Good-by,  Miss  Molly. 

Miss  MEALEY.  Good-by.  [Giggling,  starts  to 
go,  turns,  and  runs  to  the  MINISTER,  unwrapping 
large  slippers  and  thrusting  them  into  his  hands, 
saying :]  For  you  — [Giggles.]  For  you!  [Giggles 
until  she  is  out  of  the  door. 

MINISTER.  Well,  now  we  must  fix  this  somehow 
for  poor  Mrs.  Woodbridge.  How  can  anyone  be 
angry  at  Molly  Mealey !  [Looking  at  the  slippers, 
he  lays  them  on  the  table. [  Pleasant  change  from 
wristlets !  They'll  fit  Uncle  Bill.  [Going  toward 
the  door,  he  calls.]  Mattie!  Gracious!  I  must 
get  to  work.  [He  sits  down  once  more  at  his 
table. 


238  LOVERS'   LANE 

[Enter  UNCLE  BILL  and  AUNT  MELISSY.  ME- 
LISSY  sits  on  stool. 

UNCLE  BILL.    Good  day,  Doctor. 

MINISTER.  Hello,  Uncle  Bill!  Been  for  a 
walk? 

UNCLE  BILL.  Yes,  sir.  Me  and  Melissy 
been  for  a  stroll.  Come  along.  [To  AUNT 
MELISSY.]  The  Minister's  here  and  he  can  de 
cide  for  us. 

[AUNT  MELISSY  says  "H-a-y-e?"  UNCLE  BILL 
repeats. 

MINISTER.  [Raising  his  voice.]  Well,  Aunt 
Melissy,  you  and  Uncle  Bill  haven't  been  having 
another  argument,  have  you  ? 

AUNT  MELISSY.  Yes,  we  have,  Minister.  I  say 
there's  no  such  thing  as  love  at  first  sight,  and  Mr. 
William  says  there  is. 

UNCLE  BILL.   I  tell  Melissy  the  very  first  time 


LOVERS'   LANE  239 

I  sot  eyes  on  her  I  felt  Cupid  takirr  aim  with  his 
arrow  right  here. 

[Putting  his  hand  on  his  heart. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  [Interrupting.]  I  didn't  think, 
Minister,  when  you  asked  me  to  come  and  live  with 
you,  I  was  going  to  have  the  end  of  my  days  made 
miserable  by  the  same  questions  that  turned  their 
beginning  topsy-turvy. 

UNCLE  BILL.  That  ain't  the  p'int  —  that  ain't 
the  p'int.  The  p'int  is,  is  there  such  a  thing  as 
love  at  first  sight? 

[Both  going  to  the  MINISTER  ;  MINISTER  scratches 
his  head.     MATTIE  enters. 

MATTIE.  Now  look  here,  Aunt  Melissy  and 
Uncle  Bill,  you  mustn't  interrupt  the  Minister. 
He's  at  work  on  to-morrow's  sermon.  [She 
hurries  them  of.]  Tom,  what  do  you  think? 
Mrs.  White  has  twins. 


240  LOVERS'   LANE 

MINISTER.   Twins? 

MATTIE.   I  never  did  have  any  patience  with 
that  woman ! 

MINISTER.   Which  are  they  ? 

MATTIE.    Girls  —  both  girls  !     Where  will  they 
ever  get  husbands  in  this  town  ? 

[Goes  out  Right.     BRIDGET  comes  in  Left. 

BRIDGET.    If    you    plaze,    sorr  —  [sniffling]  — 
the  lady  with  a  voice  like  a  flute  is  askin'  to  see 
you. 

MINISTER.   [Rises.]     Oh,  Mrs.  Woodbridge ! 

BRIDGET.   Yes,  sorr. 

[Sniffling. 

MINISTER.    [Absent-mindedly.]  Got      the 

asthma,  Bridget? 

BRIDGET.   No,  sorr,  I've  got  me  notice. 

MINISTER.    [Absent-mindedly.]  Have  you  taken 
anything  for  it  ? 


LOVERS'   LANE  241 

BRIDGET.   Sure,  it's  me  lave  I've  got  to  take. 
MINISTER.   Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?     Simple  told 
me.     Come  here,  Bridget.     Don't  you  go!     Miss 
Mattie  will  be  sure  to  come  around  all  right  to 
morrow.     You  leave  her  to  me. 

BRIDGET.  To  you,  sorr?  Oh,  the  Lord  bless 
you,  sorr — it  would  break  me  heart  to  lave  you, 
so  it  would.  But  what  about  Mrs.  Woodbridge, 
sorr? 

MINISTER.  By  Jupiter !  I  forgot  all  about  her. 
Bring  her  right  in  ! 

[BRIDGET  starts  to  go  out;  meets  MRS.  WOOD- 
BRIDGE  coming  in. 
BRIDGET.   Sure,  here  is  the  lady  herself. 

[Goes  out. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.   Good  morning,  Doctor. 
MINISTER.   Won't  you  sit  down  ? 

[Indicates  chair  by  the  table. 


242  LOVERS'  LANE 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Mrs.  Brown  has  told  you, 
Doctor  ? 

MINISTER.  [Sitting  on  the  organ  bench.]  Yes, 
and  I  want  to  talk  over  with  you  the  best  way  to 
fix  it. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  First,  I  want  to  tell  you 
how  it  was  I  came  here  two  years  ago.  I  wanted 
to  leave  the  city,  where  all  the  associations  were 
most  painful,  and,  besides,  I  thought  my  little  boy 
might  be  stronger  in  the  country.  My  husband 
—  I  had  better  be  quite  frank  with  you  —  my 
husband  soon  after  our  marriage  began  to  drink 
heavily  —  then  he  lost  all  his  money  on  the  horses 
and  —  what  little  I  had  —  [Rises.]  Did  I  do 
wrong  to  leave  him  ? 

MINISTER.  [Rising  and  coming  to  MRS.  WOOD- 
BRIDGE.]  Could  you  have  helped  him  by  holding 
on  to  him,  I  wonder? 


LOVERS'   LANE  243 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  [With  averted  face.}  That's 
what  I  sometimes  ask  myself  — when  the  old 
love  for  my  ideal  of  him  comes  back  with  over 
whelming  force. 

MINISTER.  Ah,  well!  Each  one's  heart  and 
mind  is  the  best  court  for  them  to  appeal  to. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  I  thought  I  ought  at  any 
rate  to  take  the  boy  away  before  he  grew  old 
enough  to  understand.  He  has  been  baptized  in 
sorrow,  and  I  want  his  life  to  be  confirmed  with 
joy  somewhere,  or  somehow  — 

MINISTER.  But  he's  so  much  better  and 
brighter  already. 

MRS.   WOODBRIDGE.    [Joyfully.]    Oh,   do   you 

think  so?     Well,  that's  my  story,  except  when  I 

came  here  I  never  lied.     I  said  I  had  no  husband 

-I  didn't  think  it  necessary  to  explain  more. 

But  of  course  when  I  was  asked  whether  I  was  a 


244  LOVERS'   LANE 

widow  or  divorced,  to-day,  there  was  nothing  to 

do  but  to  speak  the  truth,  which  I  did. 

MINISTER.  [Takes  a  chair  near  MRS.  WOOD- 
BRIDGE.]  I'm  afraid  you  weren't  prepared  to  find 
such  good  people  as  they  are  here.  Really,  you 
know,  so  narrow.  Were  you?  [Moving  towards 
her.]  But  I'm  stretching  them  all  I  can. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  And  perhaps  I  can  be  of 
some  use  as  a  wedge  ? 

MINISTER.   Well  —  to  go  back  to  the  choir.  - 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  I'd  resign  in  a  minute  if  it 
wasn't  for  Dick.  I  want  to  make  money  enough 
to  have  him  treated.  Little  lame  backs  are 
made  whole  now-a-days,  you  know,  without 
miracles. 

MINISTER.  I  know  —  I  was  thinking  of  that 
the  other  day,  but  I  believe  it  will  be  best  to  have 
you  resign  now,  anyway,  and  let  the  congregation 


LOVERS'   LANE  245 

hear  Miss  Mealey  sing  a  solo  again.     We  won't 
need  much  more  to  get  them  all  on  our  side. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  [Rising,  puts  out  her  hand.] 
How  encouraging  you  are !  Meanwhile,  I  shall 
have  to  find  some  other  place  for  Dick  and  me  to 
live  in. 

MINISTER.  [Rises  and  takes  her  hand.]  That'll 
be  easy  enough. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  So  I  thought,  but  on  my 
way  here,  three  ladies  with  empty  third-floors  told 
me  they  hadn't  any  rooms. 

MINISTER.  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  —  you  and 
Dick  come  here  and  live  with  us. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Here?  Oh,  no!  We 
couldn't  do  that. 

MINISTER.  Why  not  ?  Miss  Mattie'll  make  it 
all  right.  Come  now,  get  Dick  and  your  trunk, 
and  stay. 


246  LOVERS'   LANE 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  But  are  you  sure  you've 
room? 

MINISTER.   Oh,  yes,  yes  —  plenty  of  room. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  But  you  have  so  many 
people  here  now. 

MINISTER.  Why,  no  we  haven't  —  no  one  at 
all. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  There's  Miss  Mattie  and 
Simplicity  —  I  know  them  — 

MINISTER.  [In  thought.]  Oh  yes,  and  Uncle 
Bill  and  Aunt  Melissy,  but  that's  all. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Aunt  Melissy?  Perhaps 
she  won't  like  me. 

MINISTER.  Oh,  yes  she  will,  and  you'll  like  her, 
too.  She's  a  nice  old  person,  a  real  lady.  Lost 
all  her  money  in  a  bank  that  shut  up  suddenly, 
and  has  a  perfect  horror  of  dying  in  the  poorhouse, 
so  I  told  her  to  come  and  die  here. 


LOVERS'  LANE  247 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.   And  did  she? 

MINISTER.  Yes,  that  is,  she  came  here,  but  I 
am  glad  to  say  she  hasn't  died  yet. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.   And  who's  Uncle  Bill? 

MINISTER.   Why,  you  know  Uncle  Bill  Walters  ? 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Oh,  the  old  man  who  rings 
the  church  bell  ? 

MINISTER.  Yes.  He  was  living  alone  and  had 
to  do  his  own  cooking  —  couldn't  make  enough 
money  to  pay  a  servant.  So  I  told  him  just  to 
come  and  live  with  us,  and  let  us  be  company  for 
him. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  [Turns  to  him.]  How 
good  of  you ! 

MINISTER.  Why,  no  —  he's  a  splendid  char 
acter.  I  consider  it  a  privilege  to  have  him  — 
he's  sweet  on  Aunt  Melissy.  You  mustn't  cut 
her  out  now,  will  you? 


248  LOVERS'   LANE 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  [Laughing.]  No,  I'll  try 
not. 

MINISTER.  And  don't  mind  Miss  Mattie  if  she 
is  a  Jittle  cantankerous  at  first.  She  always  does 
that  when  any  woman  comes  to  the  house.  It 
will  take  about  seven  days  for  her  to  find  out  that 
you  don't  want  to  marry  me. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Maybe  Miss  Mattie  won't 
like  me  on  account  of  my  trouble. 

MINISTER.  Oh,  dear  no.  Mattie's  the  broadest 
minded,  most  generous  creature  in  the  world. 

MATTIE.    [Outside.     Yells.]     T-o-m! 

MINISTER.  That's  Mattie  now.  [MRS.  WOOD- 
BRIDGE  starts  toward  the  door,  frightened.}  Wait  a 
minute.  I'll  tell  Mattie.  She'll  be  so  pleased. 
[Calls.]  Mattie ! 

MATTIE.  [Entering;  rather  shortly.]  What  is  it, 
Tom?  Oh!  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Woodbridge. 


LOVERS'   LANE  249 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Good  morning,  Miss 
Mattie, 

MINISTER.  [Timidly,  from  behind  the  desk.} 
Mattie,  Mrs.  Woodbridge  is  coming  to  live  with 
us. 

MATTIE.   [Astounded.]    What! 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Dr.  Singleton  has  asked 
me  to,  but  I  have  told  him  I  don't  think  I  ought 
to  accept  his  kind  offer. 

MINISTER.  We'll  feel  rather  hurt  if  she  doesn't 
-  now,  won't  we,  Mattie? 

MATTIE.  [Aside  to  the  MINISTER.]  When  is  she 
coming  ? 

MINISTER.   This  evening. 

MATTIE.   This  evening ! 

[Disgusted. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Perhaps  it  will  inconven 
ience  you  to  have  Dick  and  me  here  ! 


25o  LOVERS'   LANE 

MATTIE.  Oh,  I  suppose  I  can  stand  it  if  the 
Minister  can. 

MINISTER.  [To  MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.]  There,  I 
told  you  Mattie  would  be  pleased.  You  mustn't 
mind  Mattie's  ways. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  But  perhaps  you'd  rather 
I  didn't  come  this  evening,  Miss  Mattie? 

MATTIE.   Well,  I  must  own  — 

[MRS.  WOODBRIDGE  walks  over  to  the  window. 

MINISTER.  [To  MATTIE,  interrupting.]  That 
you'd  be  disappointed  if  she  didn't  —  eh,  Mattie? 

[Winks  at  MATTIE. 

MATTIE.  [Hesitating.]  No,  Tom,  that  wasn't 
what  I  was  going  to  say,  but  I  suppose  it's  none 
of  my  business. 

[Turning  to  bookcase  and  arranging  books.     Goes 
out. 

MINISTER.   [To  MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.]    Now,  you 


LOVERS'   LANE  251 

stay  right  here,  and  I'll  send  Uncle  Bill  after  Dick 
and  your  trunk. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.   Do  you  think  I'd  better? 

MINISTER.   Yes. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.   Well,  thank  you  ever  so 
much.     I'll  tell  Uncle  Bill.     You  needn't  trouble 
—  he's  on  the  porch. 

[Goes  out;  the  MINISTER  starts  to  follow. 

MATTIE.  [Coming  back.}  Now,  brother  Tom,  I 
would  just  like  to  know  where  you  are  going  to  put 
her !  I  suppose  you  want  me  to  give  up  my  room ! 

MINISTER.  [Turning  back  to  Mattie.}  Why,  no, 
Mattie.  She's  to  have  mine. 

MATTIE.   Yours?     Then  where  will  you  sleep ? 

MINISTER.   Here.     I  shall  do  nicely. 

MATTIE.   Here ! 

MINISTER.  Yes.  [Looking  around,  points  to 
the  lounge.}  On  the  lounge. 


25  2  LOVERS1   LANE 

MATTIE.  You  sleep  on  that  lounge?  What'll 
you  do  with  your  feet  ? 

MINISTER.  [Laughing.]  Hang  'em  over  the 
end,  and  then  all  the  blood  will  rush  out  of  my 
head,  and  then  I  shall  sleep  splendidly. 

[MRS.  WOODBRIDGE  re  enters,  saying  : 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Walters, 
very  much. 

MINISTER.  Mattie  was  just  saying  your  room 
would  want  a  little  arranging  for  you. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  [Taking  MATTIE'S  arm.] 
She  must  let  me  help  her.  [To  MATTIE.]  Yes, 
Miss  Mattie,  I  insist.  Show  me  where  it  is. 

MATTIE.   It's  the  room  over  the  front  porch. 

MINISTER.  Why  no,  Mattie,  it's  the  room  over 
the  parlor. 

MATTIE.  [Goes  up  to  the  desk,  sharply]  Now, 
brother  Tom,  I  think  I  am  the  one  who  takes 


LOVERS'   LANE  253 

care  of  this  house,  and  I  say  it's  the  room  over 
the  front  porch. 

[MATTIE  and  MRS.  WOODBRIDGE  go  out  together. 

MINISTER.  Now,  that's  too  bad.  It's  just  like 
Mattie  —  so  unselfish  —  going  to  give*up  her  own 
room!  Well,  there's  no  use  arguing  with  her. 
Mattie's  bound  to  have  her  own  way,  and  I  must 
get  to  work  on  my  sermon. 

[He  sits  down  at  his  desk  once  more. 

[Enter  BRIDGET,  with  her  hair  done  up  in  curl 
papers. 

BRIDGET.  If  you  plaze,  sorr,  there  is  such  a  nice 
young  couple  in  the  hall  that  wants  to  get  married. 

MINISTER.   [Writing.]     Actual  Purgatory. 

BRIDGET.  [Astounded,  coming  down.}  What,  sorr? 

MINISTER.  [Thoughtfully.]  Bridget,  do  you 
believe  in  Purgatory? 


254  LOVERS'   LANE 

BRIDGET.   I  believe  in  wedlock,  sorr. 

MINISTER.  But  that  hasn't  anything  to  do 
with  my  text  —  with  what  I  was  writing. 

BRIDGET.  Oh,  St.  Patrick!  [Laughing.]  I 
thought  you  was  referring  to  the  marriage  state. 
I  axes  your  pardon.  There's  a  young  couple  out 
in  the  hall  on  the  edge  of  matrimony,  who  are 
wantin'  you  to  give  them  a  wee  bit  of  a  push  over. 

MINISTER.  Well,  send  them  in,  Bridget,  and 
tell  them  they  must  be  married  quickly  or,  no  — 
I  mean  they  must  —  but  don't  tell  them,  —  be 
cause  I  really  have  got  to  work  on  my  sermon. 

BRIDGET.  Sure.  She's  a  darlin'  bit  of  a  wife. 
[Showing  them  in  at  the  door.]  This  way,  if  you 
plaze. 

[Enter  HERBERT  WOODBRIDGE,  followed  by 
MARY  LARKIN.  BRIDGET  goes  out.  MARY 
remains  at  the  back. 


LOVERS'   LANE  255 

HERBERT.  [Coming forward  to  MINISTER.]  You 
are  Dr.  Singleton  ? 

MINISTER.   [Rising.]     I  am  —  and  you?  - 

HERBERT.   My  name  is  Woodbridge,  and  — 

MARY.  [Coming  forward.]  I  am  Mary  Larkin, 
and  we  wish  to  be  — 

HERBERT.   [Going  over  to  MARY.]     Married. 

MARY.  [Unbuttoning  her  left  glove.]  Will  you 
marry  us  ? 

MINISTER.  Yes.  I  will  be  very  glad  to.  How 
old  are  you,  Mr.  Woodbridge? 

HERBERT.   Thirty,  sir. 

MINISTER.   [To  MARY.]     And  you? 

MARY.     Eighteen,  sir. 

[Turns  to  HERBERT.  MARY  takes  of  the  glove 
from  her  left  hand  and  places  it  on  the  table. 

MINISTER.  Eighteen?  Isn't  she  pretty.  [Forget 
ting  himself]  Isn't  she  pretty  —  isn't  she  pretty  — 


256  LOVERS'   LANE 

MARY.   [Turning.]     What  — sir? 
MINISTER.    [Starts.]    Oh  —  er  —  I  said  eight 
een  was  pretty  young  to  marry,  don't  you  think 
so? 

MARY.  Oh,  no,  sir.  And  then  Herbert  —  I 
mean  Mr.  Woodbridge  —  is  enough  older  to  make 
up  any  way. 

MINISTER.   Where  do  you  live? 
MARY.   My  home  is  really  in  East  Eddysville 
—  seven    miles    away    from    here.     We've    just 
driven  over.     I  met   Mr.   Woodbridge  in  New 
York,  where  I  went  last  winter  to  study  Art  at 
the  League. 

MINISTER.  [To  HERBERT.]  You  are  a  New 
Yorker?  So  am  I ! 

HERBERT.  Yes,  sir.  Oh  —  don't  let  us  keep 
you  standing  ! 

MINISTER.    [Absent-mindedly.]         No  —  no  — 


LOVERS'  LANE  257 

excuse  me.  Let's  all  sit  down.  [The  MINISTER 
gives  MARY  a  chair.  Then  both  men  sit  down.} 
You  aren't  in  any  hurry,  are  you  ? 

HERBERT.   Well  — 

MARY.    [Interrupting]     Oh,  no,  not  in  the  least. 

MINISTER.  [Moving  nearer  to  MARY.]  That's 
good.  We  can  take  plenty  of  time,  and  talk  it  all 
over. 

HERBERT.  I  don't  think  there  is  anything  to 
say,  sir,  except  what  the  marriage  service  requires. 

MARY.  You  don't  know  me,  sir,  but  I  know 
you  very  well.  I  often  come  here  to  visit  a  school 
friend  of  mine  —  Molly  Mealey  —  who  teaches 
here. 

HERBERT.   But  that's  not  the  point. 
MINISTER.   Well,  let  me  see  —  you  are  neither 
of  you  married  already  ? 
MARY.    [Smiling]     No,  sir. 


258  LOVERS'   LANE 

HERBERT.    [Gravely.]     No,  sir. 

MINISTER.  [To  MARY.]  But  why  are  you  not 
married  at  your  own  home? 

MARY.  I  am  net  happy  there  —  my  mother 
has  married  a  second  time,  and  that's  how  I  came 
to  go  to  New  York  and  — 

MINISTER.  [Interrupting.]  I  should  think 
they'd  miss  you  awfully.  [Turning  to  HERBERT.] 
But  that's  your  gain,  isn't  it  ?  [Rising  and  return 
ing  the  chair  to  the  desk,  he  goes  over  to  the  bookcase.] 
I  always  use  the  Episcopal  service.  [He  takes  up  a 
prayer-book  from  bookcase.]  Are  you  to  be  mar 
ried  with  a  ring  ? 

MARY.   Oh,  yes.     Of  course,  sir  - 

HERBERT.  [Rising from  the  organ  bench.]  Mary, 
I  forgot  the  ring. 

MARY.  Herbert!  Then  we  can't  be  married 
to-day  ! 


LOVERS'   LANE  259 

MINISTER.   And    that    would   disappoint   you 
very  much,  wouldn't  it  ? 

[He  lays  the  prayer-book  on  the  table. 
MARY.   Yes,  sir,  but  after  all  we  could  do  with 
out   the  ring,    though  —  [smiling   at   HERBERT] 
I  shan't  feel  quite  altogether  married,  Herbert. 
[MINISTER  stands  in  deep  thought,  twisting  a  ring 

on  his  finger. 

MARY.  [Crosses  to  HERBERT.]  Why?  What 
is  he  doing? 

HERBERT.  I  don't  know.  He's  a  funny  old 
Johnnie,  isn't  he? 

MARY.   No,  I  think  he  is  a  dear  man  ! 
HERBERT.   Well,   I   wish   he'd   brace   up   and 
marry  us.     I  —  I  —  I  beg  your  pardon. 

MINISTER.  [Absent-mindedly.]  I  beg  your  par 
don.  I've  got  a  ring.  Will  you  let  me  give  it  to 
you  for  a  wedding  present?  It  was  my  sister's 


260  LOVERS'   LANE 

wedding  ring  once.  She  said  for  me  to  use  it,  but 
I'll  never  get  married.  The  townspeople  here 
tease  me,  you  know  —  they  say  my  little  church 
is  my  sweetheart,  and  they  call  the  road  that  leads 
to  it  from  our  orchard,  " Lovers'  Lane." 

MARY.  [Who  is  standing  between  the  MINISTER 
and  HERBERT.]  Oh,  but  do  you  want  to  part 
with  it? 

MINISTER.  Yes,  I  would  like  it  to  be  your  wed 
ding  ring.  [She  takes  the  ring.}  Now,  we  must 

have  a  couple  of  witnesses. 

» 

MARY.  Oh,  Herbert  dear.  [Turning  to  HER 
BERT.]  We  didn't  bring  any  witnesses  either. 

MINISTER.  [Going  to  the  door.}  Oh,  I've  got 
plenty  of  witnesses  —  house  full  of  witnesses.  [He 
calls.}  Mattie !  Mattie ! 

MATTIE.  [Calling  back  to  him.}  Now,  what  is 
it,  Tom? 


LOVERS'   LANE  261 

MINISTER.   I  want  you. 

MATTIE.  [Still  calling.}  Go  on  with  your  ser 
mon  —  I'm  busy ! 

MINISTER.   I  want  you  to  be  a  witness. 

MATTIE.  For  the  land's  sake !  Witness  to 
what? 

MINISTER.   A  marriage. 

MATTIE.  [Impatiently,  still  calling.}  I'm  too 
busy.  I've  got  no  time  for  such  nonsense.  Call 
Bridget,  and  I'll  send  down  Mrs.  Woodbridge. 

MINISTER.    [Calling.}     Bridget ! 

[Taking  up  the  prayer-book  again. 

HERBERT.  [Starts  slightly  to  himself.]  Mrs. 
Woodbridge ! 

MARY.  Woodbridge  —  our  name!  Isn't  that 
funny ! 

MINISTER.  That  ought  to  bring  you  luck. 
Will  you  stand  there  ? 


262  LOVERS'   LANE 

[They  stand  together  as  MRS.  WOODBRIDGE  comes 
in. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  You  sent  for  me,  Dr. 
Singleton? 

MINISTER.  Yes.  Mrs.  Woodbridge,  I  want 
you  to  witness  a  marriage  between  Miss  Larkin 
and  Mr.  — 

[MRS.  WOODBRIDGE  starts  as  she  sees  HERBERT. 

HERBERT.   Lucy! 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Was  it  to  witness  a  mar 
riage  between  these  two  people  that  you  called 
me,  Dr.  Singleton? 

MINISTER.   Yes. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.   I  cannot  do  it. 

MINISTER.    [Kindly.]     Tell  us  why  not. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Ask  him  who  is  the  father 
of  my  poor  little  boy. 

HERBERT.   Yes,  we  were  once  married,  she  and  I. 


LOVERS'  LANE  263 

MARY.   [To  HERBERT.]    What  do  you  mean? 

MINISTER.  [To  MARY.]  He  was  once  her  hus 
band,  but  they  are  divorced  now. 

MARY.  [To  MINISTER.]  But  he  never  told  me 
he  had  been  married.  Herbert,  you  never  said 
you  were  — 

HERBERT.  [Interrupting.]  I  didn't  want  you 
to  know. 

MARY.  But  it  was  a  lie  —  you  told  me  a  lie  — 
you  told  me  a  lie ! 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  [To  MINISTER.]  Don't  let 
him  ruin  her  poor  young  life  if  you  can  prevent  it. 

[MRS.  WOODBRIDGE  leaves  the  room;  they  watch 
her  go.  The  MINISTER  stands  motionless.  A 
pause. 

HERBERT.    [Impatiently.]     Well? 

MINISTER.  I  cannot  marry  you  —  you  must 
go  to  someone  else. 


264  LOVERS'   LANE 

HERBERT.   Why  ?     Because  I  am  divorced  ? 

MINISTER.  No,  because  I  don't  think  you  will 
make  Miss  Larkin  happy. . 

HERBERT.   You  are  not  the  best  judge  of  that. 

MINISTER.  [To  MARY.]  Do  you  still  wish  to 
marry  him  ? 

MARY.   I  don't  know,  sir ! 

HERBERT.  [Scornfully,  turning  to  MARY.] 
Because  I  have  been  divorced,  you  are  going  to 
throw  me  over  ? 

MARY.   No.     Because  you  told  me  a  lie  ! 

HERBERT.   Then  you  don't  love  me? 

MARY.  Oh  —  Herbert!  [Turning  to  HERBERT  ; 
then  to  MINISTER.]  Yes,  I  do  still  want  to  marry 
him. 

MINISTER.  Then  you  must  get  someone  else 
to  perform  the  service  for  you. 

HERBERT.   Very  well,  sir,  I  am  sorry  to  have 


LOVERS'   LANE  265 

had  to  put  you  to  this  trouble.     Good  afternoon. 
[He  goes  toward  the  door.]     Come,  Mary! 

[He  waits  at  the  door. 

MARY.    [Starting  to  follow.]     Good-by,  sir ! 

MINISTER.    Good-by. 

[He  stands  in  deep  study  at  his  desk.     MARY, 
remembering  the  ring,  goes  up  to  the  MINISTER. 

MARY.  Oh,  Herbert !  His  ring !  [To  MINISTER.] 
Dr.  Singleton,  forgive  me,  I  forgot  your  ring. 

MINISTER.  I  hope  you  know,  Miss  Larkin, 
that  I  would  be  pleased  to  marry  you  if  I  could 
feel  he  would  make  you  happy  as  you  deserve. 

MARY.   Thank  you,  sir.  —  Your  ring ! 

MINISTER.  Do  they  know  at  home  what  you 
are  doing  ? 

MARY.   No,  sir,  but  they  wouldn't  care. 

MINISTER.  Then  why  not  go  home  to-night  and 
think  it  over  ? 


266  LOVERS'   LANE 

HERBERT.  [At  door,  impatiently.]  Mary!  It's 
getting  late.  I'll  go  and  get  the  horse. 

[Goes  out. 

MARY.  Thank  you,  sir,  —  you  don't  know 
how  much  he  loves  me  —  But  your  ring? 

MINISTER.  No,  take  it  just  the  same  —  I  am 
sorry  not  to  be  the  one  to  put  it  on,  but  if  you 
are  determined  to  marry  him,  take  it,  and  use 
it  just  the  same.  I  want  it  to  be  your  wedding 
ring.  [HERBERT  calls  "MARY." 

MARY.   Thank  you,  sir.     I  must  go. 

[She  starts  to  go,  but  meets  UNCLE  BILL  carrying  * 
DICK. 

UNCLE  BILL.  Here  we  are,  Doctor  —  come  in 
the  back  way.  How  d'ye  do,  Miss? 

MARY.  How  do  you  do?  Oh,  you  poor,  dear 
little  fellow.  [She  kisses  DICK.]  What's  your 
name? 


LOVERS'  LANE  267 

UNCLE  BILL.   Woodbridge.     Dick  Woodbridge, 

Esq.     [MARY  starts.]     Now,  you  must  hurry  up 

and  grow  up,  and  some  day  you  can  marry  a 

pretty  lady  like  that. 

[UNCLE  BILL  goes  to  bay  window  and  plays  with 

DICK,  who  has  a  picture  book. 
MARY.   [To  MINISTER.]    His  boy !    His  boy ! 
Doctor  Singleton  —  I  shall  go  home  to-night ! 
[She  hurries  from  the  room.     The    MINISTER 
pauses  and  thinks.     He  sees  her  glove  on  the 
table.     He  picks  it  up  and  lays  it  on  his  desk. 
SIMPLICITY  comes  in. 

SIMPLICITY.   Pops !     Thinkin'  of  your  sermon  ? 
MINISTER.   No,    Simple,   I  wasn't,   though    I 
ought  to  have  been.     I  don't  believe  there's  a 
Purgatory,  Simple. 

SIMPLICITY.   I  do,  Pops.     I've  torn  my  dress 
again.  [She  looks  for  tear,  but  can't  find  it. 


268  LOVERS'   LANE 

MINISTER.   Dear  me  !     Where? 

SIMPLICITY.  There!  [Finding a  big  tear.]  Pin 
it  up  for  me,  will  you,  Pops? 

[The  MINISTER  k  leels  and  pins  it  together. 

MINISTER.   How  did  you  do  it  ? 

SIMPLICITY.    Guess. 

MINISTER.    Climbing  apple  trees? 

SIMPLICITY.  Ugh-huh !  [Laughs.  Picking  up 
MARY'S  glove  from  the  desk.}  Whose  glove  is 
this? 

MINISTER.  [Rising  and  taking  the  glove  from 
her.]  Mine ! 

SIMPLICITY.   Yours? 

MINISTER.  Yes!  I  got  it  in  exchange  for  a 
ring. 

THE    CURTAIN   FALLS 


ACT  II 

SCENE  :  The  schoolhouse  corner.  Opposite  is  the 
country  store.  Through  a  window  the  post  office 
is  seen.  It  is  recess  time,  and  all  the  children  are 
playing.  Six  or  eight  girls  in  a  circle  are  shout 
ing  "One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight 
—  all  around  the  other  way."  They  join  hands 
and  dance  around  in  a  circle.  A  group  of  boys 
playing  leap-frog  with  SIMPLICITY.  Two  small 
boys  and  one  girl  playing  horse,  with  the  smallest 
boy  for  the  horse.  The  girl  is  driving.  The 
teacher  rings  the  school  bell.  SIMPLICITY  hides 
behind  two  fighting  boys  (BILLY  and  HARRY). 
MR.  BROWN,  who  keeps  the  store,  is  on  the  porch, 
smoking  and  reading.  DICK  is  sitting  on  the 
269 


2?o  LOVERS'   LANE 

school  steps,  looking  on.  MARY  LARKIN  sits 
beside  him.  Miss  MEALEY  comes  from  the 
schoolhouse,  ringing  the  bell.  The  children  stop 
playing. 

Miss  MEALEY.   Where's  Simplicity? 
ALL  THE  GIRLS.   What? 
Miss  MEALEY.   Simplicity. 
BESSIE  STEELE.    [With  girls  —  searching  among 
the  girls,  calls.}      Simplicity!      Simplicity!     Oh, 
she  must  be  with  the  boys. 

Miss  MEALEY.   What,  playing  with  the  boys 
again,  when  I've  expressly  forbidden  her !     Sim-  ' 
plicity !     [There  is  a  dead  silence.     SIMPLICITY  is 
hiding   behind   the    boys.]      Simplicity,    are    you 
there? 
SIMPLICITY.    [Still  hiding.]     No,  ma'am. 

[All  the  children  laugh. 
Miss  MEALEY.    Come  out  this  minute ! 


LOVERS'   LANE  271 

BILLY.   She  ain't  here.     That  was  me  making 

« 

believe. 
Miss  MEALEY.   I  know  better.     Come  here, 

Simplicity ! 

BILLY.   [To  SIMPLICITY.]     Don't  you  do  it. 

Miss  MEALEY.  Billy  Brown,  you  stay  fifteen 
minutes  after  school. 

BILLY.   I  don't  care.     She  ain't  here  ! 

[Going  to  Miss  MEALEY. 

Miss  MEALEY.  Now  you'll  stay  half  an  hour 
after.  Simplicity! 

SIMPLICITY.  I'm  coming.  [Pushes  her  way  be 
tween  the  two  boys,  giving  BILLY  a  half-eaten  apple.] 
Here,  Billy.  You  take  my  apple.  I'm  sorry 
you've  got  to  stay  in. 

Miss  MEALEY.  Haven't  I  told  you  you'd  be 
punished  if  you  didn't  stop  being  such  a  tom 
boy?  You'll  get  the  ruler,  Miss. 


272  LOVERS'   LANE 

MARY.  [From  the  school  steps.]  Oh,  please 
don't  punish  her,  Molly.  She  doesn't  mean  any 
harm. 

[MOLLY  and  MARY  talk. 

BILLY.  It's  your  fault,  Harry  Jenkins,  for  not 
hiding  her  enough.  I've  got  a  good  mind  to  — 

HARRY.   Aw  —  why  don't  you  do  it  ?     Here, 
knock  the  chip  off  me  shoulder  —  I  dare  you  ! 
[The  two  boys  fight.     SIMPLICITY  grabs  BILLY, 
while  MARY  LARKIN  and  the  little  girls  take 
charge  of  HARRY. 

MARY.    Boys!     Boys!     Now,  come,  this  won '1  * 
do  any  good.     Simplicity,  you  go  into  the  school 
now,  and  tell  Miss  Mealey  you  are  sorry,  and 
maybe  she'll  forgive  you. 

SIMPLICITY.   I'm  always  saying  I'm   sorry  - 
I'm  getting  tired. 
MARY.    Come  along. 

[SIMPLICITY  walks  toward  the  schooUwnse. 


LOVERS'  LANE  273 

BILLY.  Miss  Mealey,  if  you  want  to  lick  any 
one,  lick  me  —  I  don't  mind. 

Miss  MEALEY.  No !  I'm  not  going  to  whip 
anybody  to-day.  [All  the  children  shout  for  joy.] 
But  Simple  must  study  her  spelling  the  rest  of  the 
recess. 

[Miss  MEALEY  pushes  SIMPLICITY  into  the 
schoolhouse  and  shuts  the  door. 

BILLY.  The  boys  don't  mind  her  lickin'.  She 
don't  hurt  anybody. 

MARY.  Billy,  will  you  take  Dick  Woodbridge 
home?  He  doesn't  feel  well. 

BILLY.  Yes,  ma'am,  in  just  a  minute.  [He 
takes  from  his  pocket  the  apple  which  SIMPLICITY 
has  given  him,  looks  at  it,  and  carefully  places  it  in 
another  pocket.  MARY  helps  DICK  on  BILLY'S 
back.]  Come  along,  Dick.  Get  on  my  back. 

MARY.  There !  That's  splendid  —  thank  you, 
Billy. 


274  LOVERS'  LANE 

BILLY.   Dick,  now  you  pretend  I'm  a  runaway 
horse  and  you  can't  stop  me. 

[He  gallops  of  stage,  all  the  children  following 
and  shouting  after  him,  "Runaway  horse  - 
stop  him,"  etc. 

MARY.    Come  along.     Now,  children,  let's  play 
London  Bridge ! 

HARRY.   Aw  —  I  don't  want  to  play  no  girl's 
game  ! 

BESSIE  STEELE.   Ain't   he    mean?     Well,    we 
don't  want  you  anyway,  Harry  Jennings  ! 

ALL  THE  GIRLS.   No,  we  wouldn't  play  witjj 
you  anyway,  Harry  Jennings ! 

HARRY.    [Looking  down  the  street.}     Here  com 
the  Minister.     Hooray !     Hooray  ! 

[All  the  children  run  to  meet  the  MINISTER.  He 
comes  in,  surrounded  by  children,  who  continue 
shouting. 


LOVERS'  LANE  275 

MINISTER.   What    a    flock    of    birds!     Good 
morning,  Miss  Larkin.     I'm  being  mobbed. 

BESSIE  STEELE.   Let's  play  London  Bridge  is 
Falling  Down,  with  the  Minister  and  Miss  Larkin. 
ALL  THE  CHILDREN.      Yes!      Hurrah!      The 
Minister  and  Miss  Larkin  ! 
MINISTER.   Will  you? 
MARY.   Yes,  indeed. 

[They  join  hands,  holding  them  up  to  make  the 
bridge,  and  the  children  form  in  twos  and 
pass  under,  singing : 

"  London  Bridge  is  falling  down,  falling  down, 

falling  down,  London  Bridge  is  falling  down,  my 

lir  Lady.     Take  some  bricks  and  build  it  up, 

juild  it  up,  build  it  up,  Take  some  bricks  and 

build  it  up,  my  fair  Lady.     Take  the  key  and 

lock  her  up,  lock  her  up,  lock  her  up,  Then  take 

the  key  and  lock  her  up,  my  fair  Lady." 


276  LOVERS'   LANE 

[Miss  MEALEY  enters,  ringing  recess  bell  to  bring 
the  children  back  to  the  schoolhouse.     Then,  as 
if  looking  for  some  truant,  she  sees  //^MINISTER 
and  MARY  holding  hands. 
Miss  MEALEY.    [Going  up  to  the  MINISTER  while 
MARY  joins  the  children.]     Well,  when  you  two 
are  through  holding  hands,   perhaps  you'll  let 
school  go  on  ! 

MINISTER.  I  came  around  to  see  how  the  sing 
ing  was  getting  along,  Miss  Molly.  [To  MARY.] 
We're  getting  up  an  Old  Folks  Concert  with  the 

children,  to  build  a  wing  to  the  schoolhouse. 

»*  1 

MARY.  I  heard  about  it,  but  thought  it  was 
to  be  Mrs.  Jarley's  waxworks  ? 

MINISTER.  So  it  was,  but  some  of  the  church 
ladies  said  that  would  be  too  much  like  a  theat 
rical  performance. 

Miss  MEALEY.   Yes,  indeed,  there's  some  of  us 


LOVERS'   LANE  277 

as   don't   care   to   demean   ourselves,    though   I 
don't  doubt  Mrs.  Woodbridge  was  willing  ! 

MINISTER.  I  wanted  the  waxworks.  Thought 
there'd  be  more  fun,  but  it's  to  be  a  children's 
Old  Folks  Concert,  and  I  hope  they've  learned 
their  old  tunes. 

Miss  MEALEY.  They  may  not  sing  as  well  as 
your  choir. 

MINISTER.  Look  out,  Miss  Molly!  Mrs. 
Woodbridge  resigned  this  morning,  and  you'll 
have  your  chance  again. 

Miss  MEALEY.  [Brightening.]  Don't  say!  I 
hadn't  heard.  Would  you  like  to  hear  the  chil 
dren  practise?  We  were  going  to,  after  Geog 
raphy.  Perhaps  you'll  be  passing  by  and  could 
stop. 

[Going  toward  the  school. 
MINISTER,   Well,  maybe  I  will. 


278  LOVERS'   LANE 

Miss  MEALEY.  Come  on  in,  Mame,  if  Dr. 
Singleton  can  spare  you. 

[Laughing,  she  goes  slyly  into  the  schoolhouse. 
MARY  follows. 

MINISTER.  MissLarkin.  [Following  MARX.]  I 
hope  you  are  not  angry  with  me  for  sending  you 
and  Mr.  Woodbridge  from  the  Parsonage  yester 
day? 

MARY.   No,  no.     I  am  not  angry. 

MINISTER.  Will  you  be  here  after  Geography, 
too? 

MARY.  Yes,  I'm  going  to  see  Simplicity 
through  her  struggles  with  the  capital  of  Vermont. 

MINISTER.  I  know,  she  wants  every  State  to 
have  a  Boston. 

MARY.    Good-by. 

[She  blushes  and  goes  into  schoolhouse. 

MINISTER.  [Follows  a  few  steps.]  No  —  no! 
Not  good-by  —  I'm  coming  back. 


LOVERS'   LANE  279 

BROWN.  [From  the  porch.]  Good  morning, 
Minister ! 

MINISTER.  Good  morning,  Mr.  Brown.  Lovely 
morning. 

BROWN.  I  hear  the  billiard  table  come  to  the 
express  office  this  morning. 

MINISTER.  Yes,  I'm  going  to  see  about  its 
being  put  up  now. 

BROWN.  Look  out  for  the  women !  They're 
dead  set  against  it. 

MINISTER.  What's  the  matter  with  the  women 
in  this  town? 

BROWN.  Oh,  they're  just  mad  because  you 
ain't  married  one  of  them  yet.  You  take  the 
advice  of  a  friend  who  has  gone  and  done  it,  and 
you  go  over  to  North  Adams  and  get  one  of  them 
purty  young  city  girls  ! 

MINISTER.  When  I  first  came  here  I  thought 
they  all  liked  me,  and  were  going  to  help  me 


280  LOVERS'   LANE 

build  up  this  place  into  a  happy,  free,  broad- 
minded  community. 

BROWN.  You  can't  do  it,  Doctor.  Not  with 
this  here  generation.  They  says  now  you  are 
too  free  and  broad-minded,  and  old  Deacon  Steele 
there,  —  he's  as  bad  as  the  women  folks.  He 
even  says  as  how  nothing  can  stop  you.  If  they 
don't  look  out,  you'll  be  additating  a  corner 
saloon. 

MINISTER.  Poor  mistaken  old  man,  when  all 
I  want  is  to  make  everybody  here  happy  and 
contented  in  a  good,  healthy  way,  —  and  I'll  do 
it  yet,  in  spite  of  them  ! 

BROWN.    Go  ahead  —  I'm  backing  you. 

MINISTER.  Look  here,  I  want  you  to  get  in  a 
stock  of  cards. 

BROWN.   Postal  or  visitin'  —  I've  got  'em  both. 

MINISTER.   No.     Playing  cards  ! 


LOVERS'   LANE  28i 

BROWN.  Flavin'  cards?  I  wouldn't  risk  the 
outlay.  I'd  never  sell  'em. 

MINISTER.  I'll  order  two  packs  now,  for  the 
young  men's  parlors. 

BROWN.  Well,  you're  goin'  it  purty  strong! 
[Rising.]  When  the  women  folks  hear  that  — 
[Whisttes.]  But  -I'll  see  you  through.  I'll  write 
a  postal  card  right  off  to  Bosting. 

[He  goes  into  the  store  to  a  desk  by  the  window, 
and  writes  the  card.     The  MINISTER  walks  up 
the  street  and  meets  BILLY  coming  down. 
MINISTER.   Hello,  Billy ! 

BILLY.    Been  up  to  your  house,  sir,  with  Dick 
Woodbridge.     He's  sorter  sick. 

MINISTER.   Sorry    to    hear    that.     Was    his 
mother  there? 

BILLY.    Yes,  sir,  but  gee,  I'm  late ! 

[He  runs  into  the  school 


282  LOVERS'   LANE 

MINISTER.    [Following.]    Tell  Miss  Mealey  it 
was  my  fault. 

[MRS.  STEELE  enters,  on  her  way  to  the  store. 
She  notices  the  MINISTER,  turns  up  her  nose, 
and  flounces  into  the  store. 
MRS.   STEELE.   [At  the  door.]    Mr.  Brown,  is 
your  wife  here  yet  ? 

BROWN.  [Who  was  writing  at  his  desk  by  the 
window,  comes  out]  No !  Didn't  know  she  was 
coming ! 

MRS.  STEELE.    [On  the  step,  looking  up  and  dowi 
the  street,  and  glancing  at  the  MINISTER.]     Well, 
she  is,  and  that  billiard  table  is  going  to  be  carted 
from  the  express  office  any  minute  now,  if 
don't  prevent  it! 

[She  goes  into  the  store.     SKILLIG  enters  wiih 
paste-pot  and  brush,  posters,  etc.     Whistlinf 
He  commences  to  paste  on  the  board  one  sheet. 


LOVERS'   LANE  283 

SKILLIG.   [To  BROWN.]     Good  m-o-r-n-i-n-g  — 

[He  goes  on  pasting. 

BROWN.   Good  morning,  Mr.  Skillig.     Doctor 
Singleton,  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Skillig. 
Mr.  Skillig  is  manager  of  our  Oprey  House. 
SKILLIG.   How  d'ye  do? 

MINISTER.  Glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Skillig. 
Heard  you'd  come  over  to  undertake  the  manage 
ment  of  the  Opera  House. 

SKILLIG.   Yep  !  yep  !  and  I  lead  the  orchestra, 
oo. 

MINISTER.  Musical,  too.  That's  good !  You'll 
help  us  with  the  Old  Folks  Concert? 

SKILLIG.   [Vigorously  pasting  bill-board.]   That's 
aat  I've  got  here  in  the  bills.     I'm  billposter, 
too.     [Still  pasting.]     One  man  in  his  life  plays 
lany  parts. 
MINISTER.   An  actor,  too? 


284  LOVERS'   LANE 

SKILLIG.  I  always  thought  so.  [Still  pasting] 
But  I  was  too  darned  artistic  for  the  present 
public.  I  tried  everything,  from  Hamlet  to 
Vaudyville,  but  I  never  reached  Saturday  night 

in  a  single  town. 

[He  reads  aloud. 

OLD    FOLKS   CONCERT 

AT   THE 

YOUNG  PEOPLE'S  MEETING  ROOMS 

IN  LOVERS'   LANE 
NEXT  SATURDAY  EVENING  AT  7.30  SHARP 

FOR   THE    BENEFIT    OF   THE 

ADDITION   TO   THE    SCHOOLHOUSE 

Admission  25  Cents 
ALL  WELCOME  REFRESHMENTS 

BROWN.  Here,  Skillig,  give  me  one  of  them 
posters,  and  I'll  put  it  up  in  my  store. 

[SKILLIG  gives  him  a  poster,  and  he  goes  into 
store. 


LOVERS'   LANE  285 

MINISTER.  [Pointing  to  paper  on  the  bill 
board.]  It's  a  pity  we  haven't  got  some  pictures 
like  this  Uncle  Tom  troupe  to  advertise  our  con 
cert  with. 

SKILLIG.  That  was  a  rotten  show,  though. 
Little  Eva  and  Eliza  doubled,  and  Uncle  Tom  did 
the  bloodhounds  behind  the  scenes.  I  won't 
have  them  in  my  Oprey  House  again. 

[Goes  on  pasting. 

MINISTER.  Haven't  you  some  left-over  pic 
tures  —  some  pretty  pictures  you  could  put  up 
for  the  Concert  ?  Something  to  attract  the  coun 
try  people  ?  We  want  to  make  all  the  money  we 
can. 

SKILLIG.  [Stopping  to  think.]  Well,  now,  I 
believe  I  have.  There  was  a  troupe  that  busted 
last  week,  and  had  sent  on  some  writing,  C.  O.  D. 
What  was  it  they  called  themselves?  Now,  let 


286  LOVERS'   LANE 

me    see!     Oh,    yes  — The    New  York    Daisies. 
They  might  do. 

MINISTER.   Pretty  little  girls  ? 

SKILLIG.  That's  your  figure  —  they  was 
daisies ! 

MINISTER.   Well,  give  us  some  of  those. 

SKILLIG.   I'll  go  and  get  a  couple  now. 

[He  puts  down  his  paste  bucket  and  brush. 

MINISTER.  Good  idea.  Oh,  Mr.  Skillig !  I'd 
like  to  have  you  come  around  to  our  house  some 
night  and  have  supper.  My  sister  Mattie'd  be 
very  glad  to  see  you. 

SKILLIG.   Thank  you! 

[He  goes  up  the  street.  The  MINISTER  starts  to 
go  out,  but  MARY,  from  the  window,  coughs  to 
attract  his  attention. 

MINISTER.  Hello!  Is  that  Geography  lesson 
over?  [Coming  up  to  the  window. 


LOVERS'   LANE  287 

MARY.  No,  but  poor  Simplicity  has  finished. 
She  said  Boston  was  the  largest  city  in  the  world, 
and  she  thought  Vermont  was  a  lake. 

MINISTER.   Poor  child!     Where  is  she? 

[Peers  in  the  window. 

MARY.   In  the  corner  with  her  face  to  the  wall. 

MINISTER.   Planning  mischief,  I'll  be  bound. 

MARY.  Tell  me,  have  you  been  where  you  were 
going? 

MINISTER.  Oh,  dear  no  !  I  forgot.  I'm  off  to 
see  the  billiard  table  set  up  in  the  young  men's 
club. 

MARY.  [Still  talking  through  the  window.] 
They  haven't  one  yet  ? 

MINISTER.  Yet?  The  Deacon  and  the  Sew 
ing  Circle  threaten  to  pull  down  the  house  if  the 
table  is  set  up,  but  I'll  conquer  before  I  get 
through !  I'll  have  the  Deacon  passing  the  time, 


288  LOVERS'    LANE 

some  dull,  wet  evening,  with  an  honest  game,  and 

Molly  Mealey  pushing  the  beads  along  to  keep 

count.     Good-by.     Will  you  be  here  when  I  get 

back? 

MARY,  Yes.  I'll  be  inside.  Just  rap  three 
times  on  the  ledge.  Molly  is  awfully  mad  with 
me  for  playing  London  Bridge  with  you  just  now. 

MINISTER.  [Absent-mindedly.]  Is  she?  That's 
good.  I  —  I  —  mean  —  that  won't  do  any  harm. 

MARY.    Good-by. 

[Disappears  from  the  window. 

MINISTER.    Good-by. 

[He  stands,  watching  the  window  where  she  was. 
MRS.  BROWN  and  MRS.  JENNINGS  enter  on 
their  way  to  the  store. 

MRS.  BROWN  and  MRS.  JENNINGS.  [Together.] 
Good  morning,  Dr.  Singleton  ! 

MINISTER.    Good  morning  —  beautiful  day! 


LOVERS'   LANE  289 

MRS.  BROWN.  We're  meeting  at  my  husband's 
store  to  put  down  the  billiard  table! 

MINISTER.  [As  they  both  go  into  the  store.] 
Don't  let  me  stop  you.  I  am  just  going  to  put 
it  up! 

[As  the  MINISTER  starts  to  go  out,  he  meets 
SKILLIG  coming  back. 

SKILLIG.  Hold  on  there  —  hold  on  there  — 
I've  got  the  pictures  ! 

MINISTER.  I  can't  wait  —  it's  all  right  —  put 
'em  up.  I'll  see  you  to-morrow. 

[He  goes  out. 

SKILLIG.  [With  $-sheet  rolls,  he  prepares  to  paste 
them  up.]  This  ought  to  be  a  great  "ad"  for  an 
Old  Folks  Concert.  [As  he  finishes  pasting,  he 
gazes  admiringly  at  the  pictures  —  a  flashy  group 
of  chorus  girls  in  tights,  with  large  hats  and 
feathers.]  Cussed  shame  this  troupe  didn't  show 


290  LOVERS'  LANE 

here.    Looks  like  a  pretty  good  show.     Calculated 

to  wake  this  blessed  old  town  up. 

[BROWN  enters  as  the  second  sheet  is  pasted  up. 

BROWN.  [Disgusted.]  Hello,  Mr.  Skillig !  Do 
you  think  there's  any  room  for  me  out  o'  doors  ? 

SKILLIG.  I  don't  own  the  earth,  Mr.  Brown. 
Wish  I  did.  •  [He  pastes  up  the  third  sheet. 

BROWN.  Well,  my  wife  and  her  women  friends 
are  in  the  store,  and  there's  no  room  for  me  there. 
What  are  you  doing  ? 

SKILLIG.  Puttin'  up  bills  for  the  Old  Folks 
Concert. 

[Brown  starts  to  read  the  poster.     SKILLIG  goes 
on  pasting. 

MRS.  BROWN.  [Coming  out  of  the  store  with 
MRS.  STEELE.]  Hosea,  you  can  go  back  into  your 
store,  now.  [MRS.  JENNINGS  staying  on  the  porch. 

BROWN.   Have  you  emptied  the  vinegar  barrel  ? 


LOVERS'   LANE  291 

MRS.  STEELE.  Good  morning,  Mr.  Skillig.  [She 
sees  the  poster  and  screams.]  Oh,  Mrs.  Brown  and 
Mrs.  Jennings  !  Look  ! 

MRS.  BROWN.    Good  gracious ! 

MRS.  JENNINGS.  [Rushing  from  the  porch.] 
What  is  it  — what  is  it? 

MRS.  BROWN.  Don't  look,  Mrs.  Jennings! 
Don't  look! 

MRS.  JENNINGS.  I  guess  I  do  look  —  you  have! 
[Looks  at  the  posters.]  Sakes  alive ! 

SKILLIG.  What's  the  matter!  [Turning  to 
BROWN.]  Be  they  jealous?  [BROWN  is  shaking 
with  laughter. 

MRS.  BROWN.  Give  me  that  brush!  [She 
struggles  for  the  brush  —  and  gets  it.]  Give  me 
one  of  those  white  sheets.  [She  picks  it  up  and 
pastes  it  excitedly  over  part  of  one  of  the  pictures.] 
You  come  near  enough  to  see  this  picture  and 


29 2  LOVERS'   LANE 

I'll  paste  a  bill  on  you!  [To  SKILLIG.]  And  now 
you  paste  it  all  over,  or  I'll  tear  it  off,  or  I'll 
have  you  arrested. 

SKILLIG.  It  was  the  Minister  told  me  to  put  it 
there. 

MRS.  BROWN.   What ! 

MRS.  STEELE.   The  Minister ! 

MRS.  JENNINGS.  A  nice  man  to  have  guiding 
our  young,  and  ruling  in  our  midst! 

MRS.  BROWN.  [Showing  postal  card.]  And 
what  do  you  think  I  just  found  on  my  husband's 
counter  ? 

MRS.  STEELE.   To  a  woman? 

MRS.  BROWN.  No,  but  most  as  bad.  To  Bos- 
ting  for  playing  cards  ! 

[Tears  the  postal  card  in  half,  and  throws  it  away. 

MRS.  STEELE.  As  for  them  indecent  pictures, 
the  Deacon  will  attend  to  them. 


LOVERS'   LANE  293 

MRS.  JENNINGS.   And  the  billiard  table ! 
MRS.  BROWN.   Let  that  be  for  the  present,  and 
come  back  now  to  Miss  Canning's.     Putting  Mrs. 
Woodbridge  out  of  the  choir  ain't  enough;    we 
must  put  that  scandalous  orphan  —  Simplicity 
-of  his,  out  of  that  school!     I  ain't  agoin'  to 
have  her  ruining  of  my  boy's  character. 

MRS.  STEELE.  She's  a  bad  influence,  that's 
what  she  is,  and  we'll  show  Dr.  Singleton  who  is 
boss  of  this  town  ! 

MRS.  BROWN.  We  women  folks!  We'll  settle 
it  at  Miss  Canning's. 

[The  three  women  go  out  talking  excitedly.  As 
they  go,  SKILLIG  picks  up  the  postal  card  — 
pastes  it  together  with  paper,  and  then  mails  it 
in  the  letter-box,  whistling,  "  There'll  be  a  hot 
time  in  the  old  town  to-night"  The  MINISTER 
re-enters. 


294  LOVERS'   LANE 

MINISTER.    [Calling.]  Mr.  Brown!  Mr. Brown! 

BROWN.   [Coming  back.}     Yes,  sir. 

MINISTER.    I  got  it  up. 

BROWN.     What? 

MINISTER.     The  billiard  table. 

BROWN.     Good !     But  I  say  - 

MINISTER.  Can't  stop  now.  You  must  ex 
cuse  me.  I  have  an  engagement.  [The  MINISTER 
goes  toward  the  window  of  the  school.  BROWN 
goes  into  the  store.  The  MINISTER  taps  three 
times  on  the  window-ledge.  MARY  appears  at 
the  window.}  Sorry  I  was  so  long. 

MARY.  Why,  it  wasn't  long.  You've  only 
been  gone  ten  minutes. 

MINISTER.  Jupiter !  I  thought  it  was  about 
an  hour  and  a  half. 

MARY.  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  met  Herbert 
—  Mr.  Woodbridge. 


LOVERS'  LANE  295 

MINISTER.  I  did  —  and  his  sister,  Mrs.  Lane. 
She  thinks  I  was  wrong  yesterday.  I  wonder 
if  I  was. 

MARY.   What  did  Herbert  say  ? 

MINISTER.  I  only  talked  with  Mrs.  Lane. 
There  are  other  ministers  to  go  to,  you  know. 

MARY.  I  won't  be  married  by  anybody  ex 
cept  you. 

MINISTER.  Do  you  know,  Miss  Larkin,  I 
wish  you  lived  here! 

MARY'.   So  do  I. 

MINISTER.  Then,  why  don't  you  come  and 
live  with  us?  Oh,  dear,  I  don't  suppose  that 
would  do  — Besides,  we  haven't  any  room. 
I  don't  know  as  I  would  exactly  blame  Mr. 
Woodbridge  for  hating  me. 

MARY.    Why  should  anyone  hate  you  ? 

MINISTER.   Dear  me!     Then  you  must  blame  a 


2g6  LOVERS'  LANE 

lot  of  women  in  this  town.  I  find  myself  getting 
very  unpopular.  What  do  you  wear  on  that 
ribbon  around  your  neck  ? 

MARY.   I  don't  like  to  tell. 

MINISTER.   Why  not? 

MARY.  It's  something  I  want  to  give  you. 
It's  the  real  reason  I  came  to  town  to-day. 
But  I  can't  give  it  to  you  here  —  someone 
might  see  me.  I'll  bring  it  to  the  Parsonage. 

MINISTER.  I  don't  see  how  I  can  wait  till 
then  to  know  what  it  is. 

MARY.   [Laughing.]    I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to. 

MINISTER.  [Taking  her  hand.]  Isn't  it  funny 
how  much  prettier  your  hand  is  than  Mattie's? 

MARY.  [Blushing  and  drawing  her  hand  away.] 
Is  it? 

MINISTER.  And  prettier'n  Aunt  Melissy's  or 
Mrs.  Brown's  or  Miss  Mealey's  and  even  Simple's, 


LOVERS'  LANE  297 

Prettier  even  than  Simple's  when  it's  clean. 
It  is  on  special  occasions. 

MARY.   Oh,  you're  a  flatterer,  Mr.  Singleton! 

[The  children's  voices  are  heard  inside,  trying 
to  sing  the  "Swing  and  Cricket"  song,  with 
the  organ. 

MINISTER.  And  I  bet  Molly  Mealey  didn't 
tell  you  so. 

MARY.  I  forgot.  They're  practising  now  for 
you. 

MINISTER.   Ought  I  come  in  ? 

MARY.  No,  they  want  to  come  out  here  and 
surprise  you. 

MINISTER.   Surprise  me? 

MARY.  Sh !  Yes !  Don't  say  I  told  you, 
but  they're  dressed  up  in  the  old-fashioned 
clothes  they're  going  to  wear,  and  when  they 
know  you  are  here,  they  are  going  to  march 


298  LOVERS'   LANE 

out  and  surprise  you.     I  must  tell  Molly  you've 
come. 

MINISTER.   No,  don't  tell  her  yet. 

MARY.   Why  not? 

MINISTER.  [Absent-mindedly.]  Oh,  I  don't 
know.  I  just  thought  that  you  and  I  might 
go  on  talking  for  a  couple  of  hours. 

MARY.  Oh,  no,  there  isn't  time.  I  must  tell 
them!  Besides,  Molly's  awfully  mad  at  me 
still.  She  says  I  needn't  come  over  here  to  see 
her;  that  it's  only  a  blind  to  see  you.  [Laugh 
ing.]  Isn't  she  silly? 

MINISTER.     Yes,  I  suppose  she  is. 

MARY.   Good-by. 

[She  vanishes  from  the  window. 

MINISTER.  [Absent-mindedly,  turning  from 
window.]  Yes,  siree!  It's  the  prettiest  hand 
I  ever  saw. 


LOVERS'   LANE  299 

MARY.  [Comes  out  of  the  schoolhouse  door  and 
speaks  to  him,  as  if  they  hadn't  been  speaking 
before.]  How  do  you  do,  Dr.  Singleton. 

MINISTER.  Glad  to  see  you  again,  Miss 
Larkin. 

[Miss  ME  ALE  Y  appears  at  the  schoolhouse  door. 
Miss  MEALEY.   Oh,    that's    what    you    were 
doing  at  the  window,  Mame  Larkin?     Talking 
to  the  Minister.     I'll  thank  you  not  to  make 
my  schoolhouse  your  rendezvous. 
MARY.   Molly ! 

Miss  MEALEY.  I'm    not    playing    gooseberry 
to  anyone.     If  you  want  to  carry  on  with  the 
Minister,  you'd  better  do  it  in  your  own  home! 
MINISTER.   Miss  Mealey !     Miss  Mealey ! 
[The    children    run   out  from   the  schoolhouse, 
dressed  for   the  Old    Folks  Concert,   singing 
"Old  Dog  Tray."     They  form  a  grape-arbor 


300  LOVERS'  LANE 

by  joining  hands  across  the  stage.  The  first 
couple  stop  in  front  of  the  steps  and  join  hands. 
The  next  couple  pass  under  and  do  likewise, 
until  all  form  the  grape-arbor.  The  fat  boy, 
passing  through  last,  stops  a  second  and 
watches  the  children.  The  last  couple  through 
start  back  single  file  through  the  arbor  and  circle 
round  the  MINISTER,  all  running  of  through 
the  schoolhouse.  The  fat  boy,  with  his  hand 
on  the  shoulder  of  the  last  boy  on  the  line, 
slyly  peeps  at  the  pastor  until  he  reaches  the 
steps,  when  he  falls  into  schoolhouse.  As 
the  children  go  out,  MRS.  BROWN,  DEACON 
STEELE,  MRS.  STEELE,  and  MRS.  JENNINGS 
come  on. 
MRS.  BROWN.  There,  Deacon,  that's  it! 

That's  the  scandalous  thing,  and  the  Minister 

chose  it ! 


LOVERS'   LANE  301 

STEELE.  And  in  front  of  Molly  Mealt-y's  school. 
[To  Miss  MEALEY.]  Keep  the  children  in  school. 

MINISTER.  [Now  looking  at  the  bill-board  for 
the  first  time.]  Jupiter!  Is  that  Skillig's  idea 
of  a  daisy?  The  old  man's  made  a  mistake. 
This  won't  do ! 

STEELE.   No,  siree,  it  won't  do ! 

MRS.  BROWN.   And  lots  more  things  won't  do. 

MRS.  STEELE.  The  billiard  table's  up.  We'll 
get  it  down  if  we  have  to  saw  its  limbs  off  ! 

Miss  MEALEY.  Oh,  the  Minister  has  other 
games.  He  can  always  play  London  Bridge 
with  East  Eddysville  girls. 

MRS.  BROWN.  [To  STEELE.]  Go  on  —  Sim 
plicity  — 

STEELE.  Molly,  is  it  true  what  the  ladies 
have  been  telling  me,  that  Simplicity  Johnson 
is  the  most  punished  child  in  your  school  ? 


302  LOVERS'  LANE 

Miss  MEALEY.   Yes,  Deacon,  that's  true. 

MINISTER.   Poor  Simple ! 

MRS.  BROWN.   And  she  deserves  it,  Molly. 

Miss  MEALEY.   More  than  she  gets. 

MINISTER.   I  doubt  that. 

MRS.  BROWN.   I   beg  pardon,   Dr.   Singleton, 
but  just  now  we're  in  the  pulpit. 

MINISTER.   Then   Heaven   help   your   congre 
gation  ! 

STEELE.   Mrs.  Brown  says  as  Simplicity  lies. 

Miss  MEALEY.   She  does. 

MINISTER.   Be  careful,  Miss  Mealey.     You'll 
have  to  prove  everything  you  say. 

MRS.  BROWN.   And   Mrs.   Jennings   says   she 
steals  —  took  marbles  from  her  boy. 

MINISTER.   Simple ! 

Miss  MEALEY.   Shouldn't  be  surprised. 

MRS.  BROWN.    And  Mrs.  Steele  says  — 

[Mumbles  on  until  STEELE  interrupts. 


LOVERS'  LANE  303 

STEELE.  Let  me  do  the  talking,  Mrs.  Brown. 
[To  MINISTER.]  Mrs.  Steele,  than  whom  there 
ain't  no  more  trustful  woman,  allows  that  this 
child  is  a  menace  to  the  young  of  this  town. 

MINISTER.   Huh! 

MRS.  BROWN.  Yes,  indeed.  She's  a  bad  ex 
ample  —  that's  what  she  is.  And  out  she's 
got  to  git! 

STEELE.  [To  Miss  MEALEY.]  Molly,  fetch 
her  here. 

Miss  MEALEY.  [Calling  SIMPLICITY  from  the 
school.}  Simplicity ! 

[SIMPLICITY  comes  in. 

MRS.  BROWN.  Simplicity  Johnson,  you're  ex 
pelled  from  this  school. 

SIMPLICITY.   I'm  glad  of  it ! 

MRS.  BROWN.   Oh,  you  are! 

MRS.  STEELE.   What  impudence! 

MRS.  JENNINGS.   Well,  I  never! 


3o4  LOVERS'  LANE 

STEELE.   But  that  ain't  all. 

MRS.  BROWN.  No,  siree,  it's  only  the  be 
ginning.  You're  going  to  be  sent,  Miss,  to  the 
Massachusetts  State  House  of  Correction. 

MINISTER.   What ! 

MARY.   No ! 

Miss  MEALEY.  Oh,  of  course,  Miss  Larkin 
would  take  the  Minister's  side. 

MINISTER.  But  that's  as  good  as  sending  her 
to  jail. 

SIMPLICITY.  Jail !  [She  screams,  throwing  her 
self  on  the  ground  in  front  of  the  MINISTER.]  No, 
no,  Pops !  Don't  let  'em  send  me !  Don't  let  'em 
send  me  to  jail ! 

MINISTER.  [Lifting  her.]  Never  mind,  Simple, 
don't  worry. 

[He  embraces  her.     The  others  are  horrified. 

STEELE.   The  child  is  expelled. 


LOVERS'   LANE  305 

MINISTER.   And   I   say   she   isn't.     Who   ex 
pelled  her? 
Miss  MEALEY.   I  do. 
MINISTER.   You?     You  haven't  the  right. 
MRS.  BROWN.   Then,  Molly  Mealey,  you  re 
sign. 

Miss  MEALEY.  I  do !  I  resign  the  school 
this  minute. 

MINISTER.  Good !  You  witness  that,  Mr. 
Brown.  She  resigns. 

BROWN.   Yes,   siree,   Minister.     I    witness  it. 
MRS.  BROWN.   [Who  nods  knowingly  to  Miss 
MEALEY.]    And  now  you  have  no  teacher  in  the 
town  ! 

ALL.   Ugh-huh! 

MINISTER.  Miss  Larkin,  I  know  you  don't 
need  our  little  salary,  but  you  said  you'd  like 
to  live  in  this  town,  and  I'd  like  to  have  you. 


306  LOVERS'   LANE 

Will  you  accept  the  vacant  post  of  teacher  of 
this  school? 

MARY.   Yes,  Dr.  Singleton. 
MINISTER.   Thank    you.     Come    in    and    let 
me  introduce  you  to  the  scholars. 

[MARY  and  MINISTER  go  into  the  schoolhouse 
and  close  the  door.  In  surprise  the  four 
women  follow,  and  look  in  through  the  window. 
On  seeing  the  new  teacher,  cheering  from  the 
children  is  heard,  as 

THE   CURTAIN    FALLS 


ACT  III 

SCENE  :  The  orchard  back  of  the  MINISTER'S 
house.  A  covered  porch  opens  out  into  the 
garden.  It  is  an  Autumn  day ;  the  ground  is 
strewn  with  fallen  leaves.  There  is  an  apple  tree 
with  apples  on  it,  and  under  it  a  bench.  The 
MINISTER'S  house  is  to  the  Left.  On  the  Right, 
a  little  path  leads  up-hill  through  trees,  to  a  gate. 
A  golden  Autumn  light  pervades  everywhere. 

UNCLE  BILL  and  AUNT  MELISSY  are  discovered 
sitting  on  a  bench  under  the  apple  tree.  SIM 
PLICITY  is  in  the  tree,  watching  them  from  above. 
AUNT  MELISSY.  I'm  sure,  Mr.  Bill,  it's  a 

long  time  since  I've  thought   of  such  a  thing 

as  marriage  and  giving  in  marriage. 
307 


3o8  LOVERS'  LANE 

UNCLE  BILL.   I  ain't  sot  much  store  on  it. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  [Holding  her  hand  to  her 
ear.}  H-a-y-ee  ? 

UNCLE  BILL.  I  say  I  ain't  sot  much  store 
on  it  myself  for  the  last  forty  years. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  But  I  must  say  it's  a  bit 
comfortin'  to  an  old  body  like  me  to  hear  as 
there's  someone  cares  enough  for  her  to  want 
her  to  change  her  name. 

UNCLE  BILL.  Then  you  think,  Melissy  dear, 
you  kin  trust  your  life  to  me?  [SIMPLICITY 
drops  autumn  leaves  on  them  from  above.]  I 
guess  the  wind's  raisin'. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  And  you'd  never  let  me  die 
in  the  poorhouse,  would  you,  Mr.  Bill? 

UNCLE  BILL.   No,  siree,  Melissa. 
AUNT  MELISSY.   Ha-a-ye-? 

[SIMPLICITY  drops  more  leaves  on  them. 


LOVERS'  LANE       -  309 

UNCLE  BILL.  [Looking  up.]  Sort  o'  spasmotic 
breezes  ever'  now  and  then  —  hope  'tain't  goin' 
ter  rain. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  It  will  be  more  convenient 
for  the  Minister,  too,  havin'  us  married,  Mr. 
William. 

UNCLE  BILL.   Yes,  it'll  give  him  an  extra  room. 

AUNT  MELISSY.   H-a-y-e-? 

UNCLE  BILL.  [Louder.]  I  say  it'll  give  him 
an  extra  room  for  Mis'  Woodbridge.  That's 
one  reason  made  me  ask  yer  to-day.  Thought 
as  how  we  wus  getting  sort  o'  cramped  fur  room, 
in  the  Parsonage. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  You  mustn't  say  we  wus,  if 
I  am  going  to  be  Mrs.  Walters.  I'll  have  to 
teach  you  grammar,  Mr.  William. 

UNCLE  BILL.  Then  it's  all  settled,  is  it, 
Melissy?  [SIMPLICITY  drops  an  apple  on  UNCLE 


3io  LOVERS'  LANE 

BILL'S  head.  He  picks  up  the  apple.}  We're 
goin'  ter  have  an  all-fired  early  apple  crop. 
Hev  this  one  with  me,  Melissy.  I've  heard 
tell  of  them  heathen  gods  gave  Venus  a  gold 
apple  cas  she  was  a  pretty  girl. 

AUNT  MELISSY.   H-a-y-e? 

UNCLE  BILL.  I  say  I've  heard  tell  of  one  of 
them  heathen  gods  gave  Venus  a  gold  apple 
cas  she  was  a  pretty  gal. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  Now,  go  'long,  Mr.  Bill,  I'm 
not  a  pretty  girl. 

UNCLE  BILL.  I  didn't  say  ye  wus;  I  said 
Venus  wus  a  pretty  gal. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  Oh  !  Yer  mustn't  talk  'bout 
Venus  until  we're  married.  Come,  let  us  ask 
the  Minister. 

[They  start  to  go  to  the  house  as  BRIDGET  and 
MR.  BROWN  come  out. 


LOVERS'  LANE  311 

BRIDGET.   You'll  find  him  in  the  orchard. 

[BRIDGET  goes  in  again. 

BROWN.  Hello  —  Uncle  Bill  —  is  the  Minister 
here? 

UNCLE  BILL.  No,  sir,  he's  to  Miss  Canning's. 
Kin  we  do  anythin'  fur  yer? 

BROWN.  Well,  I  dunno.  I've  come  to  warn 
the  Minister,  in  a  friendly  way,  there's  trouble 
brewing  in  the  church.  How  is  he  to-day? 
He's  behaved  sort  o'  absent-minded  and  curious- 
like  the  last  few  days. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  [To  BROWN.]  The  Minister 
was  all  put  out  by  the  singing  in  the  church 
Sunday.  Said  he  missed  the  inspiration  of 
Mis'  Woodbridge's  voice. 

BROWN.  Ah,  he  owned  up,  did  he  ?  That  was 
a  mistake.  Well,  the  trouble  is,  most  of  the  con 
gregation  take  a  different  view  and  sez  it  made 


3i2  LOVERS'  LANE 

'em  feel  real  comfortable  hearing  Molly  Mealey 

getting  off  the  key  again  in  the  same  old  place. 

AUNT  MELISSY.   H-a-y-e? 

BROWN.  Made  'em  feel  sort  o'  comfortable 
hearing  Molly  Mealey  getting  off  the  key  again 
in  the  same  old  place. 

AUNT  MELISSY.   O-h! 

BROWN.  [To  UNCLE  BILL.]  Mis'  Woodbridge 
settlin'  down  here  ter  stay? 

UNCLE  BILL.  She's  come  fer  good.  I  guess 
—  anyway  fer  a  long  spell.  Her  boy  was  took 
sick  yesterday. 

BROWN.  That's  too  bad  !  Things  are  going 
against  the  Minister.  They're  all  saying  he 
give  'em  an  old  sermon  last  Sunday. 

UNCLE  BILL.  He  had  a  new  one  begun  —  a 
scorcher  —  I  guess.  About  whether  there's  a 
Purgatory  or  not. 


LOVERS'  LANE  313 

BROWN.   That's  just  what  they  wanted,     He 
ought  to  have  given  it  to  'em  hot. 

UNCLE  BILL.   I  think  he  took  the  side  of  there 
being  no  actual  place  of  the  kind. 

BROWN.  There  you  have  it !  Just  goin'  con 
trary  to  the  folks'  wishes.  The  people  are 
scandalized  by  his  taking  Mis'  Woodbridge  in. 
Tell  the  Minister  I've  come  to  tell  him  there's 
a  private  meeting  of  the  Council  will  be  held 
.  pretty  soon,  and  I'd  advise  him,  as  a  friend, 
to  happen  in,  and  if  he  can  say  as  Mis'  Wood- 
bridge  has  gone  to  the  City  on  the  5 : 30  P.M. 
train,  it'd  be  the  best  thing  fur  him. 

[During  this  speech,  AUNT  MELISSY  edges  over 

to  BROWN,  listening. 
AUNT  MELISSY.   H-a-y-e? 
BROWN.   Oh,  dog-gon-it  —  you  tell  her ! 

[Walking  up  and  down. 


3i4  LOVERS'   LANE 

UNCLE  BILL.  Mis'  Woodbridge's  going  to  the 
City  on  the  5 :  30  train. 

SIMPLICITY.    [From  the  tree.}    Hello,  Mr.  Brown. 

BROWN.   Hey?     What? 

UNCLE  BILL.  [Surprised,  looking  about.}  It's 
Simplicity. 

BROWN.    [Also  looking  about.}     Where  is  she? 

SIMPLICITY.  [In  the  tree.}  Here  I  am,  up  in 
the  tree. 

BROWN.  Oh,  I  thought  you  weren't  allowed 
to  climb  the  tree? 

SIMPLICITY.  [Eating  an  apple.}  I'm  not,  by 
Miss  Mattie,  but  Pop  lets  me. 

BROWN.  There,  that's  just  what  everyone 
says  —  he  lets  the  child  do  as  she  pleases. 

UNCLE  BILL.  They'd  better  not  talk  to  me 
about  the  Minister  !  I  can  tell  yer  that  I  haven't 
been  ringing  the  bell  there  for  twenty  years  with 


LOVERS'  LANE  3iS 

this  arm,  without  putting  some  muscle  into  it. 
Who  bought  the  bell  and  give  it  ter  the  church? 
Why,  the  Minister. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  [Who  hasn't  heard  correctly.] 
Yes,  indeed,  I  was  a  great  belle  in  my  day. 

[BROWN  looks  disgusted  and  walks  away. 
UNCLE  BILL.   We're  talking  about  the  church 
bell  the  Minister  gave.     The  ding,   ding,   ding 
dong  bell. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  Oh,  yes,  indeed,  and  he  just 
the  same  as  give  the  church  itself.  When  he 
first  came  here,  he  started  right  in  by  lifting 
the  mortgage  of  three  thousand  dollars  out  of  his 
own  pocket. 

SIMPLICITY.  Yes,  siree,  and  I  heard  every 
word  you  said,  Mr.  Brown,  and  I  can  tell  you 
one  thing,  —  Pops  will  do  what's  right  in  spite 
of  all  the  Councils  in  creation. 


316  LOVERS'   LANE 

BROWN.  But  Simplicity,  the  Minister'd  better 
humor  the  Council.  It's  for  them  to  decide 
who's  to  be  in  their  pulpit. 

SIMPLICITY.  I  don't  care  who  decides  what. 
I'll  bet  on  Pops  every  time. 

BROWN.  Well,  I'm  his  friend,  too.  I'm  going 
ter  do  all  I  kin.  [Goes  out  through  the  gate. 

SIMPLICITY.  Uncle  Bill,  I'm  awful  glad  you 
and  Aunt  Melissy  are  going  to  be  married,  but 
you'd  better  break  it  to  Miss  Mattie  first.  Pops 
will  be  tickled  to  death,  but  Mattie  will  throw 
a  fit. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  [To  UNCLE  BILL.]  H-a-y-e? 
What  did  she  say? 

UNCLE  BILL.  She's  offering  us  her  congratu 
lations. 

AUNT  MELISSY.   Thank  you,  Simplicity. 

SIMPLICITY.  Aunt  Melissy,  I'll  be  your  brides 
maid. 


LOVERS'   LANE  317 

AUNT  MELISSY.   H-a-y-e?     What  did  she  say? 

UNCLE  BILL.  She  says  she  wishes  she  was  going 
ter  be  married. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  There's  plenty  of  time  for 
you,  Simplicity,  plenty  of  time  for  you. 

SIMPLICITY.  Uncle  Bill,  ain't  you  ashamed  of 
yerself,  sparkin'  the  girls  at  your  age? 

UNCLE  BILL.   What's  age  got  to  do  with  it? 

AUNT  MELISSY.   H-a-y-e?     What  did  she  say  ? 

UNCLE  BILL.  She  said  you  look  twenty  years 
younger  than  yer  did  yesterday. 

[They  go  into  the  house  laughing. 

SIMPLICITY.  [Still  from  the  tree]  I  don't  want 
ter  marry  anyone  in  the  world  but  Pops  —  I'm 
goin'  to  wait  until  I'm  grown  up  fer  him.  The 
trouble  is,  I'm  afraid  I'll  never  be  good  enough. 

9  [The  MINISTER  has  entered  through  the  gate 
and  is  going  towards  the  house.  SIMPLICITY 
throws  an  apple  and  hits  the  MINISTER. 


3i8  LOVERS'  LANE 

MINISTER.   Hello,  is  that  you,  Simple? 
SIMPLICITY.   Yep.     Come  along  up. 
MINISTER.   I    climb    into    that    tree?     Why, 
what  would  Mattie  say? 

SIMPLICITY.    She    wouldn't    care    unless    you 
tore  your  pants.     Come  along  up. 

MINISTER.   No,  you  come  down  —  come  on  - 
or    you'll    get    into    trouble.     Look    at    all    the 
trouble  one  woman  got  us  into  by  fooling  with 
an  apple  tree. 

[The  MINISTER  takes  his  hat  of  and  lays  it 
on  the  bench,  going  up  to  the  tree.     He  coaxes 
SIMPLICITY  to  come  down. 
MINISTER.    Come  on  down  —  come  on  down. 
SIMPLICITY.   No,  not  unless  you  come  up  after 
me  first. 

MINISTER.   We'll  see  if  you  won't ! 

[The  MINISTER,  reaching  up  to  her,  catches  her 


LOVERS'  LANE  319 

—  trying  to  pull  her  down  by  the  ankles.  SIM 
PLICITY  kicks  and  laughs. 

SIMPLICITY.   Pops,  you  tickle  me  ! 

MINISTER.  Come  down,  then.  I'll  paddy 
whack  you  —  that's  what  I'll  do,  if  you  don't. 

SIMPLICITY.   I'm  not  afraid.     Ouch ! 

MINISTER.   Are  you  coming? 

SIMPLICITY.   No  —  ouch  ! 

MINISTER.   Yes  you  are,  too. 

[SIMPLICITY  loses  her  hold.  She  slides  down 
from  the  tree,  and  her  dress  catches  on  a  snag 
as  the  MINISTER  helps  her  down. 

SIMPLICITY.   Oh,  did  you  hear  that? 

MINISTER.   Did  it  tear  ? 

SIMPLICITY.   Yes,  and  you  did  it  too,  Pops  ! 

MINISTER.   By  Jupiter  —  what'll  Mattie  say  ? 

SIMPLICITY.  [Trying  to  fix  tear.}  She  walloped 
me  yesterday  fer  doin'  it,  with  her  hair  brush. 


320  LOVERS'  LANE 

MINISTER.  Try  and  keep  out  of  sight  until 
after  prayers  again.  She  didn't  punish  you 
the  other  night,  did  she? 

SIMPLICITY.  No,  of  course  not,  after  the 
chapter  you  read,  Pops.  I  thought  it  was 
awful  good  of  you  to  choose  one  about  being 
patient  with  transgressors. 

[She  takes  an  apple  out  of  her  wnist,  and  bites  it, 

MINISTER.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  you,  Simple. 
I  read  that  for  Mrs.  Woodbridge. 

SIMPLICITY.  [Throwing  down  apple. [  Say, 
Pops,  you've  got  to  stop  that.  Mr.  Brown 
has  just  been  here  ter  say  so. 

MINISTER.   Mr.  Brown  ?     To  say  what  ? 

SIMPLICITY.  He  says  the  church  people  are 
mad  as  hornets  at  you. 

MINISTER.   Mad  at  me?     Why? 

SIMPLICITY.  'Cause  you  let  Mrs.  Woodbridge 
come  and  live  with  us. 


LOVERS'   LANE  321 

MINISTER.   What  business  is  that  of  theirs? 

SIMPLICITY.  There's  a  meeting  of  the  Council 
this  afternoon. 

MINISTER.  [Angry.]  What?  A  church  meet 
ing  without  me? 

SIMPLICITY.  That's  it,  Pops.  Get  mad  at 
them  —  don't  you  be  afraid  ! 

MINISTER.   Did  he  say  anything  else  ? 

SIMPLICITY.  Yes.  Lots  !  They  all  liked  Miss 
Mealey's  singing. 

[Giggling. 

MINISTER.   [Laughing.]      No?      Did    he    say 

that,  Simple?     [Laughs.]     Oh,  that's  too  good. 

[The  MINISTER  and  SIMPLICITY  both  laugh. 

SIMPLICITY.  And  you  preached  an  old  sermon 
day  before  yesterday. 

MINISTER.  Well,  I  did  —  I  did.  I  couldn't 
get  Mary  Larkin's  face  out  of  my  eyes  long 
enough  to  write. 


322  LOVERS'  LANE 

SIMPLICITY.  And  Mrs.  Woodbridge  ?  Oh, 
they're  mad  —  you  took  her  in. 

MINISTER.  Poor  woman !  They'd  hound  her 
out  of  the  village  if  they  could. 

SIMPLICITY.  That's  what  he  said,  Pops.  It'd 
be  good  for  you  if  you  could  happen  in  at  the 
meeting  and  say  that  Mrs.  Woodbridge  was 
going  to  the  City  on  the  5  :  30  train. 

[MATTIE  enters  from  house. 

MINISTER.  [Angry.]  I'll  happen  into  the  meet 
ing  and  tell  them  she  won't  do  any  such  thing, 

MATTIE.    [On  the  steps]     What,  Tom? 

MINISTER.  Why,  there's  trouble  in  the  church 
over  Mrs.  Woodbridge.  They've  driven  her 
out  of  the  choir  and  out  of  her  home,  and  now 
they  want  to  drive  her  out  of  the  Parsonage. 

MATTIE.  [Coming  down.}  Well,  I'd  like  to 
see  them  do  it. 


LOVERS'  LANE  323 

SIMPLICITY.    Bully  for  you  ! 

[Running  to  MATTIE  and  taking  her  hand. 
MATTIE.    [Looking  at  SIMPLICITY'S  hands.]     For 
goodness'    sake,    go    and    wash    your    hands  — 
they're  filthy ! 

[SIMPLICITY  goes,  but  sits  down  on  the  steps. 

MINISTER.    She  shall  stay  with  me  as  long  as 

she  wants  to.     The  Parsonage  belongs    to   me. 

I'm  going  to  give  it  to  the  church,  but  I  haven't 

yet. 

MATTIE.  But  Tom,  dear,  the  church  isn't 
yours. 

MINISTER.    What  do  you  mean,  Mattie  ? 

MATTIE.  The  Council  have  the  power  to  put 
you  out  of  the  church  for  good. 

MINISTER.  Put  me  out?  Put  me  —  why, 
Mattie —  how  could  you  ever  think  of  such  a 
thing  —  me  ? 


3 24  LOVERS'  LANE 

MATTIE.  Well,  suppose  that  you  didn't  satisfy 
them? 

MINISTER.  Didn't  satisfy  them?  What  do 
they  want?  I've  given  them  most  of  my  money 
and  all  of  my  time.  Why,  the  bell  in  that 
little  square  tower  over  there  has  never  rung  out 
once,  in  all  these  fifteen  years  for  service,  without 
our  gate  latching  behind  me  before  the  third 
stroke. 

MATTIE.  Don't  I  know  that,  Tom,  dear  ? 
MINISTER.  They'd  never  ask  me  to  resign. 
Why,  they  couldn't  do  a  cruel  thing  like  that ! 
They  can't  help  knowing  that  my  heart  and  soul 
are  mortared  up  in  those  red  brick  walls  —  Why, 
Mattie  —  Mattie  —  how  could  you? 

[He  goes  over  to  the  bench  and  sits  down. 
MATTIE.   Good  gracious,  Tom,  I  didn't  want 
to  make  you  feel  this  bad  — 


LOVERS'   LANE  325 

MINISTER.  Oh,  well,  I  guess  Simple  has  been 
exaggerating  a  little. 

MATTIE.  Simple!  Now  I  wish  I'd  punished  her 
last  night  for  tearing  her  dress  again.  Perhaps 
I  will,  anyway,  when  I  go  in. 

[SIMPLICITY,  who  has  been  listening,  runs  into 
the  house. 

MINISTER.   How's  little  Dick? 

MATTIE.  'Bout  the  same  —  fever  high,  but  the 
Doctor  says  there's  no  danger.  But  that  isn't 
my  news  !  It's  Aunt  Melissy. 

MINISTER.   [Rising.]    Not  dead? 

MATTIE.    [Laughing.]    No  —  worse  —  married ! 

MINISTER.   Married? 

[Laughing  incredulously. 

MATTIE.  She  and  Uncle  Bill  want  your  con 
sent. 

MINISTER.   Jupiter!     What  did  you  tell  them? 


326  LOVERS'   LANE 

MATTIE.  Never  was  so  stunned  in  my  life! 
I  was  speechless ! 

MINISTER.  Speechless  !  I  guess  it  was  for  the 
first  time,  Mattie. 

MATTIE.  Well,  I'd  like  to  know  where  you'd 
be  if  it  wa'n't  for  my  tongue? 

MINISTER.  Crowded  out  of  existence  long 
ago.  I'll  tell  you  how  to  let  Aunt  Melissy  know 
my  answer.  You  know  those  worsted  slippers 
Molly  Mealey  gave  me  the  other  day? 

MATTIE.  Yes,  I  put  them  in  the  Missionary 
Church  along  \vith  the  others. 

MINISTER.  Well,  take  them  to  Aunt  Melissy, 
and  say  I  sent  them  to  her  to  give  to  Uncle 
Bill. 

[Enter  BRIDGET  from  the  house  with  broom  and 
dust  cap,  her  dress  pinned  up. 

BRIDGET.   If  yer  plaze,   there's  such  a  foine 


LOVERS'  LANE  327 

lady  ter  see  ye.  With  kid  gloves  and  par 
asol  and  voice  like  a  Frinch  novel.  Calls  her 
self  Mrs.  Lane. 

MATTIE.  Good  gracious  !  And  the  parlor  fur 
niture's  got  covers  on,  and  the  mosquito  netting's 
all  over  the  chandelier ! 

[MATTIE  hurries  into  the  house. 
MINISTER.    [Pauses.]    Let  her  come  here. 
BRIDGET.    [Pause.]     And  Mrs.  Brown  and  her 
two  gabby  friends  is  here  to  see  Mattie. 

[MRS.  LANE  enters  from  the  house. 
MRS.  LANE.    Good  afternoon,  Doctor. 

[BRIDGET  goes  into  the  house. 
MINISTER.   Good   day.     To   what   am    I    in 
debted  for  this  pleasure? 

MRS.  LANE.  As  my  brother,  Mr.  Woodbridge, 
acknowledged,  he  failed  to  accomplish  anything 
with  you  yesterday.  I  have  come  to  appeal  to 


328  LOVERS'   LANE 

the  woman  who  was  his  wife  and  left  him.  Mrs. 
Woodbridge  is  staying  at  the  Parsonage,  I  be 
lieve  ? 

MINISTER.   That  is  true. 

MRS.  LANE.   Is  she  at  home? 

MINISTER.   She  is. 

MRS.  LANE.  I  have  asked  for  you  lest  you 
should  think  I  were  doing  something  under 
handed.  I  presume  I  may  see  her. 

MINISTER.   If  she  has  no  objection. 

[MRS.  BROWN,  MOLLY  MEALEY  and  MRS. 
STEELE  enter,  all  coming  from  the  house  and 
talking  rapidly. 

ALL.    Good  afternoon,  Minister. 

MINISTER.  Good  afternoon.  [On  seeing  the 
women,  MRS.  LANE  looks  irritated]  Mrs.  Brown, 
this  is  Mrs.  Lane  from  New  York.  Mrs.  Brown 
is  the  head  woman  of  our  church. 


LOVERS'  LANE  329 

MRS.  BROWN.  [Comes  forward  to  greet  MRS. 
LANE.]  Pleased  to  meet  you. 

[Turns  up  her  nose. 

'  MRS.  LANE.    [Drawing  aside  coldly.]     How  do 
you  do? 

MINISTER.  Miss  Molly  Mealey,  the  alto  in 
our  choir.  You'd  hear  her  sing  a  solo  if  you  came 
to  church. 

Miss  MEALEY.  [Comes  forward  giggling.}  How 
do  you  do  ? 

MRS.  LANE.  [Drawing  aside  coldly.]  How  do 
you  do,  Miss  Mealey? 

MINISTER.  Mrs.  Steele  bakes  the  best  bread  in 
the  whole  town.  We  couldn't  give  a  church 
sociable  without  her. 

MRS.  STEELE.  [Eyeing  her  critically,  comes  for 
ward  and  says  roughly  :]  How-de-do  ? 

[The  three  women  move  away. 


330  LOVERS'   LANE 

MRS.  LANE.  [Walks  to  the  steps  of  the  house. 
She  turns  to  the  MINISTER.]  Good  afternoon, 
Doctor.  I  was  to  meet  my  brother  here.  If  he 
comes  after  I  have  gone,  will  you  be  kind  enough 
to  say  that  I  have  returned  to  the  hotel  ?  Ladies 

—  good  afternoon. 

[Goes  into  the  house.     The  three  ladies  watch  her. 
MRS.  BROWN.   Such  airs  ! 
Miss  MEALEY.   [To   MRS.    BROWN.]    I   never 
saw  such  manners ! 
MINISTER.   You  see  she  comes  from  the  City 

—  she  doesn't  know  any  better ! 
MRS.  STEELE.   Y-e-s ! 

[The  three  gossip,  and  all  laugh  patronizingly  and 

look  at  each  other. 

MRS.  BROWN.   Is  she  staying  at  the  Parsonage? 
MINISTER.   Oh,  no. 
Miss    MEALEY.   We    thought    she    might    be 


LOVERS'  LANE  33i 

visiting  Mrs.  Woodbridge.  She  is  staying  at  the 
Parsonage,  we  believe,  for  good  now. 

MINISTER.  Yes,  she  and  her  little  boy,  who  is  ill. 

Miss  MEALEY.  So  Miss  Mattie  told  us. 
We've  just  been  to  see  her  — 

MRS.  BROWN.  Being  a  Committee  of  the  Sew 
ing  Circle  — 

Miss  MEALEY.  Which  was  ter  meet  here 
to-morrow  at  the  Parsonage  — 

MRS.  STEELE.   Y-e-s. 

MINISTER.  Isn't  Mattie  willing?  You  just 
leave  her  to  me. 

MRS.  BROWN.  It's  the  ladies  of  the  Sewing 
Circle  who  ain't  willing,  Mr.  Minister. 

Miss  MEALEY.   Whom  we  represent  — 

MRS.  STEELE.   Y-e-s ! 

MRS.  BROWN.  If  Mrs.  Woodbridge  is  in  the 
Parsonage,  the  ladies  won't  come. 


332  LOVERS'   LANE 

Miss  MEALEY.  We  gave  Miss  Mattie  her 
choice. 

MRS.  BROWN.  And  she  chose  Mrs.  Wood- 
bridge. 

MINISTER.   Bully  for  Mattie ! 

Miss  MEALEY.  Hem !  and  we  are  now  on  our 
way  to  the  Sunday-school  room  to  report. 

[They  start  toward  the  gate. 

MRS.  BROWN.  To  the  Council  that's  in  session 
there,  and  who  are  waiting  to  hear  the  result  of 
our  visit. 

MRS.  STEELE.    [To  the  MINISTER.]     Y-e-s. 

MINISTER.  You'd  better  not  keep  them  wait 
ing. 

MRS.  BROWN.  Doctor,  perhaps  you  wouldn't 
indorse  Miss  Mattie's  decision. 

MINISTER.  Wouldn't  I?  All  I  want  is  the 
chance. 


LOVERS1   LANE  333 

MRS.  BROWN.   That  settles  it. 

[Goes  through  the  gate. 
MRS.  STEELE.   Y-e-s. 

[She  rushes  out  of  gate,  and  joins  MRS.  BROWN. 
Miss  MEALEY.    [Inside  gate,  half  crying.}     Are 
congratulations  in  order,  Minister  ? 

MINISTER.  Yes,  for  Aunt  Melissy  and  Uncle 
Bill. 

Miss  MEALEY.  [At  the  gate.}  I  ain't  joking, 
Minister.  I  think  you'd  better  give  me  back 
those  slippers  I  embroidered. 

MINISTER.  [Recollects.}  By  Jupiter  —  it's  too 
late  now  —  I've  given  them  to  Uncle  Bill ! 

Miss  MEALEY.  [Half  crying.}  How  dared 
you? 

[Going  down  the  lane  and  out  of  sight,  calling 
" Lizzie  —  Lizzie."  HERBERT  WOODBRIDGE 
enters. 


334  LOVERS'   LANE 

HERBERT.   Has  my  sister  gone  ? 

MINISTER.   Yes,  to  the  hotel. 

HERBERT.  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  for 
me? 

MINISTER.  Nothing.  You  won't  let  me  do 
anything  for  you. 

HERBERT.   Try  me  and  see. 

MINISTER.  Well,  will  you  promise  me  to  give 
up  a  life  you  can't  afford  —  to  give  up  drinking 
if  you  can't  help  getting  drunk,  and  to  try  and 
live  a  life  that  will  be  an  honor  for  Miss  Larkin 
to  share  — 

HERBERT.   And  if  I  won't  promise  all  that? 

MINISTER.  Then  I  must  use  my  influence,  if 
I  have  any,  against  you. 

HERBERT.  You've  got  a  lot  of  influence. 
That's  the  curse  of  it !  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is 
- 1  believe  you  are  in  love  with  her. 


LOVERS'   LANE  335 

MINISTER.   I? 

HERBERT.  Yes.  Why  did  you  take  such  an 
interest  in  her,  and  why  did  you  give  her  a  ring 
off  your  own  hand,  and  one  that  you  were  evi 
dently  pretty  fond  of,  too?  And  why  have  you 
got  her  over  here  to  teach  school?  Of  course 
you're  in  love  with  her !  I  want  to  know  if  you 
think  it's  an  honest  thing  for  you  to  take  a  man's 
wife  away  from  him  at  the  very  moment  of  his 
marriage ! 

MINISTER.  Look  here,  young  man,  do  you 
know  who  you're  talking  to? 

HERBERT.  Yes,  I  do  —  I'm  talking  to  the 
Minister  whom  I  asked  to  marry  me,  and  who, 
instead  of  doing  so,  is  amusing  himself  by  casting 
slurs  on  my  character.  A  caddish  thing  to  do ! 

MINISTER.  Cad!  You'd  better  take  that 
back. 


336  LOVERS'   LANE 

HERBERT.   No,  I  won't.     It  was  an  underhand 
thing  to  do. 

[Makes  a  motion  to  strike  the  MINISTER. 
MINISTER.  [Holding  ojf  at  arm's  length.]  Look 
out !  Preaching  isn't  the  only  thing  I  can  do. 
I'm  the  captain  of  our  ball  nine,  and  the  Congre- 
gationalists  didn't  knock  out  the  Methodists  last 
Spring  for  nothing.  I  can  use  my  fists. 

[HERBERT  strikes  viciously  at  the  MINISTER. 
HERBERT.   Use  them ! 

[The  MINISTER,  catching  HERBERT'S  arm,  pre 
vents  the  blow.     He  holds  him  fast.     A  tense 
pause.     Then  he  lets  go. 
MINISTER.   I'm  only  afraid  I  will. 
HERBERT.   Afraid  you  will  ? 
MINISTER.    Yes,  I'm  afraid  I'll  forget  I'm  a 
Minister,  as  you  forgot  that  you  were  a  gentle 
man. 


LOVERS'   LANE  337 

HERBERT.  [Shamed,  turns  from  MINISTER.] 
I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  did  forget  myself. 

MINISTER.  Why,  you've  no  muscle  !  If  you'd 
been  half  as  ready  to  fight  the  Evil  One  as  you 
are  to  pitch  into  me,  you'd  get  more  strength  of 
one  kind,  anyway. 

HERBERT.  You're  right  —  I  beg  your  pardon 
—  it  is  I  who  am  the  cad.  [Walks  over  to  the  tree. 

MINISTER.  [Whose  eyes  follow  HERBERT.] 
Now,  that  acknowledgment  makes  me  respect 
you  more  than  anything  else  you've  said  or  done. 

HERBERT.    [Turning  to  him.]     How's  that  ? 

MINISTER.  Because  there's  hope  for  a  man 
who  can  see  he's  been  wrong  and  acknowledges 
it.  You  didn't  behave  right  to  your  wife  and 
boy,  did  you? 

HERBERT.  No,  I  didn't,  and  I'm  sorry  for  it, 
too.  A  year  ago  I  wanted  to  go  to  Lucy  and  ask 


338  LOVERS*  LANE 

her  to  try  me  again,  but  my  sister  told  me  I'd  be 
a  fool.  I  had  a  feeling  I'd  like  to  see  the  boy. 
I  used  to  wonder  how  he  looked.  I  could  only 
remember  him  as  such  a  little  chap. 

MINISTER.    [With    his    hands    on    HERBERT'S 
shoulders.]     Look  here,  there's  good  in  you. 

HERBERT.   Not  much,  I  guess. 

MINISTER.   Yes,  there  is.     Will  you  give  me 
your  promise  to  try  for  the  next  six  months  to  do 
without  those  things  which  would  keep  Mary  - 
Miss  Larkin  —  from  being  happy  ? 

HERBERT.   I'll  try  my  best. 

MINISTER.   You'll  promise  ? 

HERBERT.   [Going  up  to  the  MINISTER  .and  shak 
ing  hands.]     I'll  promise. 

MINISTER.    Good  — 

HERBERT.   In  six  months  I'll  come  back  and 
ask  for  Mary  - 


LOVERS'   LANE  339 

MINISTER.   And  I'll  give  her  to  you. 
HERBERT.    I  shan't  write  to  her,  though,  nor 
let  her  write  to  me.     I'll  tell  her  to-day,  and  say 
good-by. 

MINISTER.   You'll  find  her  at  the  schoolhouse. 
[HERBERT  goes  toward  the  gate,  and  gets  to  the 
tree  as  MRS.    WOODBRIDGE  appears  on  the 
porch,  coming  from  the  house. 
MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.    [Coming,  down.}     Doctor, 
Mrs.  Lane  has  asked  me  to  -      [She  notices  HER 
BERT.]     She  told  me  you  were  alone,  Doctor. 

HERBERT.  [Turns,  at  sound  of  voice,  sees  MRS. 
WOODBRIDGE,  and  starts.]  I  am  just  saying 
good-by  - 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Wait !  [HERBERT  stops.] 
It  would,  perhaps,  be  as  well  for  you  to  hear  what 
I  have  to  say,  that  you  may  assure  your  sister 
I  kept  my  word  to  her.  [To  the  MINISTER.] 


340  LOVERS'   LANE 

His  sister  wishes  me  to  tell  you  —  what  I  believe 
to  be  true  —  that  her  brother  loves  me  dearly  — 
that  he  never  ill-treated  me,  and  as  I  believe  I 
said  to  you  the  other  day,  I  think  he  is  capable 
of  better  things. 

HERBERT.   Lucy  —  you  are  too  generous   to 
me. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.   I  am  trying  to  be  just  - 
I  confess  that  at  such  a  time  as  this  -      [With 
emotion]     My   heart   feels   tender   towards   my 
boy's  father. 

HERBERT.   What  do  you  mean? 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.   [With  a  sob  in  her  voice.] 
I  mean  he  is  very  ill. 

[Turning  toward  the  house. 

HERBERT.   111?     Dick!     I  should  like  to  see 
him ! 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.   [Coming  back.]    What ! 


LOVERS'   LANE  34I 

HERBERT.  [Pleading.]  How  I  should  like  to 
see  him ! 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.   No ! 

HERBERT.  [Following  her.}  Yes  —  let  me  see 
him. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.   No  —  you  shall  not ! 

HERBERT.  [Determined.]  He  is  my  son!  I 
wil1 !  [He  starts  to  go.  She  stops  him. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  You  shall  not !  I  have 
spoken  in  your  behalf  for  another  woman,  but  I 
will  not  share  the  love  of  my  child  with  her  hus 
band  —  he  belongs  only  to  me ! 

[There  is  a  pause.     HERBERT  bows  his  head  and 
goes  out  through  the  gate. 

MINISTER.  [To  MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.]  My  poor 
woman ! 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Oh,  I  am  tired  out  —  I 
didn't  know  what  I  was  saying !  I  don't  know 


342  LOVERS'   LANE 

what  you  think  of  me  —  but  I  love  him  in  spite 

of  everything  —  with  all  my  heart ! 

MINISTER.  There,  there,  come  and  take  a  walk 
under  the  trees.  It  will  do  you  good.  I'll  go  a 
little  way  with  you. 

[They  go  out.     AUNT  MELISSY  enters  from  the 
house,  followed  by  UNCLE  BILL,  arguing. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  No  —  I  don't  want  anything 
more  to  do  with  you  ! 

UNCLE  BILL.  Look  here,  Melissy,  don't  break 
it  off  like  that,  so  sudden-like. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  Yes,  I  must.  I  couldn't  look 
forward  to  a  life  of  bickering  and  quarrelling  like 
this- 

UNCLE  BILL.  But  if  you'd  only  just  let  my 
grammar  alone,  Melissy  —  we'd  be  all  right. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  Yes,  but  your  grammar 
wouldn't  be.  I  hate  to  say  it  to  you,  Mr.  Bill, 


LOVERS'  LANE  343 

especially  in  anger,  but  you  must  know  that  some 
people  consider  it  a  misalliance  for  me  to  marry 
you  anyway. 

UNCLE  BILL.   What's  that,  Melissy? 

AUNT  MELISSY.  Marrying  beneath  my  social 
station.  [UNCLE  BILL  tries  to  interrupt.}  Not 
that  I  think  it,  goodness  knows  ! 

UNCLE  BILL.  Well,  then,  why  not  shake  hands, 
kiss  and  make  up  ! 

AUNT  MELISSY.  [Puts  her  hands  to  her  ears  and 
says :]  H-a-y-e  ? 

UNCLE  BILL.  I  say  why  not  shake  hands,  and 
kiss  and  make  up  ! 

[AUNT  MELISSY  turns  away  from  UNCLE  BILL. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  No,  I  can't  forget  your  spirit 
when  I  corrected  your  grammar. 

UNCLE  BILL.  But  you  did  it  five  times  to 
once,  Melissy, 


344  LOVERS'   LANE 

AUNT  MELISSY.  Well,  you  oughtn't  have  given 
me  the  chance. 

UNCLE  BILL.  All  right,  then  —  if  it's  all  over 
—  it's  over.  I  did  lose  my  temper,  but  I'm  likely 
to  do  it  again.  I  guess  it's  better  so.  But  I 
can't  keep  these  here.  [Handing  her  one  slipper 
which  he  takes  from  under  his  vest.]  You'll  have 
to  take  yer  present  back.  [Handing  her  the  other 
slipper.]  Perhaps  you'll  find  somebody  else  that 
they'll  fit,  whose  tongue  will  fit  the  English  lan 
guage  better  —  [AUNT  MELISSY  goes  toward  the 
gate.  UNCLE  BILL  watches  her  until  she  gets  to 
the  gate.  Following.]  Where  be  yer  goin',  Miss 
Melissy? 

AUNT  MELISSY.   H-a-y-e? 

UNCLE  BILL.   I  say  where  be  yer  goin'  ? 

AUNT  MELISSY.  [At  the  gate.]  I'm  going  down 
Lovers'  Lane  to  think.  Hope  it'll  do  me  some 


LOVERS'   LANE  345 

good.  And  you  needn't  wait  to  take  me  home 
after  the  meeting,  Mr.  Bill,  'cause  I  don't  want 
yer  !  {Goes  off  down  the  lane. 

UNCLE  BILL.  [In  thought  at  the  foot  of  the  steps 
of  house.}  I  know  what  I'll  do  —  I'll  go  and  buy 
one  of  them  spelling  grammars  first  thing  in  the 
morning.  [Goes  into  the  house. 

SIMPLICITY.  [Rushes  out  from  the  house,  carry 
ing  a  milk-pail,  MARY  LARKIN  following  her.  SIM 
PLICITY  calls]  Pops!  [The  MINISTER  comes 
from  orchard.}  Pops,  here's  Miss  Larkin  come 
to  see  you  —  says  she  brought  something  of  yours 
back. 

MINISTER.   How  do  you  do,  Miss  Larkin  ? 

MARY.   How  do  you  do,  Doctor  Singleton  ? 

MINISTER.   Where  are  you  going,  Simple? 

SIMPLICITY.  Oh,  you  needn't  hint,  Pops.  I 
know  two's  company  and  three  ain't  allowed,  but 


346  LOVERS'   LANE 

I  couldn't  stay  if  I  wanted.  Aunt  Mattie  found 
a  tear  in  my  dress,  and  is  making  me  milk  the  cow 
for  punishment. 

MINISTER.  I  guess  you've  worn  out  Aunt 
Mattie's  patience. 

SIMPLICITY.  Well,  the  next  thing  I  wear  out 
will  be  that  cow.  [Calling  back  from  the  gate.] 
I  guess  she'll  wish  she'd  never  been  born,  before 
I  get  through  milking  her. 

MINISTER.  Simple,  don't  forget  you're  a  mem 
ber  of  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty 
to  Animals. 

SIMPLICITY.  [Running  down  to  the  MINISTER.] 
Pops,  when  Miss  Mattie  gave  me  that  there  order, 
I  temporarily  resigned  and  stuck  my  badge  on 
Bridget !  Pops,  I  won't  do  a  thing  to  that  cow  ! 

[Runs  out. 

MINISTER.   Don't  you  like  Simple? 


LOVERS'   LANE  347 

MARY.  [Coming  down  from  the  porch.]  Yes, 
of  course  I  do. 

MINISTER.  She's  an  orphan.  Nobody  could 
understand  her  —  thought  she  was  bad.  She 
was  in  three  asylums  in  two  months,  and  after  a 
while  there  wasn't  one  in  the  State  that  would 
have  her  —  she's  so  sensitive,  it  hurts  her  feelings. 
I  took  her  to  live  in  the  Parsonage,  and  now 
couldn't  get  along  without  her. 

MARY.  [Going  over  to  the  bench  under  the  tree.] 
Doctor,  were  you  ever  unkind  to  anybody? 

MINISTER.  [Following  MARY.]  I  am  afraid  I 
was  not  as  kind  to  Mr.  Woodbridge  on  Saturday 
as  I  ought  to  have  been. 

MARY.  Oh,  that  reminds  me  why  I  came  — 
I  am  afraid  you  thought  it  very  odd  of  me  com 
ing  over  here  so  often  —  now  own  up,  didn't 
you,  Doctor? 


348  LOVERS'   LANE 

MINISTER.  No,  I  don't  know  as  I  thought 
anything.  I  was  just  enjoying  it  without 
thinking  — 

MARY.    Oh,  Doctor,  may  I  have  an  apple? 

MINISTER.  Yes,  indeed,  you  must  excuse  me 
for  not  offering  you  one  before.  [Looking  up  the 
tree,  he  sees  an  apple,  but  it  is  out  of  his  reach.  He 
jumps  for  the  apple.]  Here's  a  beauty ! 

MARY.   Yes,  but  it's  out  of  your  reach. 

MINISTER.  Wish  it  were  the  only  thing  out 
of  my  reach ! 

[He  stands  for  a  moment  in  a  trance,  and  then  goes 
to  MARY. 

MARY.  Nothing  ought  to  be  out  of  your  reach, 
Doctor.  And  nothing  would  be  if  it  only  knew 
you  wanted  it,  I'm  sure. 

[Turns  her  face  away. 

MINISTER.     [Almost    about     to     embrace     her.] 


LOVERS'  LANE  349 

Jupiter,  I  was  forgetting  about  your  apple  !  Oh, 
here's  one. 

[He  stands  on  the  bench  to  reach  the  apple,  and 
hands  it  to  MARY. 

MARY.   A  splendid  one  —  have  you  got  a  knife  ? 

MINISTER.  Yes,  siree  —  a  beauty.  The  Dea 
cons  gave  it  to  me  two  Christmases  ago. 

MARY.  [Handing  him  the  apple.]  Oh,  a  splen 
did  one  —  now  cut  it  in  half. 

MINISTER.   No,  I  don't  want  any. 

MARY.  Yes,  you  must  eat  half  with  me. 
[The  MINISTER  digs  out  the  seeds  and  cuts  the  apple 
in  half.}  No,  save  the  seeds,  and  we'll  wish  with 
them! 

MINISTER.   How? 

MARY.  Don't  you  know  how?  I'll  show  you. 
Oh,  you're  so  tall  I  must  get  up  on  the  bench.  [She 
gets  on  bench  to  reach  him.}  Now,  close  your  eyes. 


350  LOVERS'   LANE 

MINISTER.    Close  my  eyes  — ? 

MARY.   You're  not  afraid,  are  you? 

MINISTER.   No,  but  if  I  do  I  can't  see  you. 

MARY.  Never  mind  that  —  I  can  see  you. 
Go  on,  now  close  them.  [The  MINISTER  closes 
his  eyes.}  Now,  are  they  tight  closed  —  so  you 
can't  see  a  bit?  [The  MINISTER  nods  his  head. 
She  leans  toward  him  and  throws  a  kiss.]  Now, 
come  a  little  nearer,  please.  First  I  put  an  apple 
seed  on  each  one  of  your  eyelids.  There,  now 
—  wish!  [Short  pause.]  Have  you  wished? 

MINISTER.  Yes,  but  my  nose  itches,  —  may  I 
scratch  it  ? 

MARY.  [Frightened.]  No!  that  might  knock 
off  the  seeds.  Now,  wink  three  times;  and  if  one 
of  the  seeds  stays  on,  you'll  get  your  wish. 

MINISTER.   I've  done  it  —  are  they  both  off? 

MARY.    [Jumping  down  from  the  bench.]     No, 


LOVERS'  LANE  351 

they're  both  on  —  you'll  get  your  wish !  What 
was  it  ? . 

MINISTER.  I  thought  it  wouldn't  come  true  if 
I  told  you  ? 

MARY.  Well,  of  course  we're  only  joking. 
I'm  afraid  you  think  me  a  perfect  child. 

MINISTER.   Perfect  ?    Yes. 

MARY.  [Serious.]  What  did  you  wish  for? 
Something  for  yourself? 

MINISTER.  No,  not  for  myself  —  it  was  for  you. 
[Taking  her  hand.]  I  wished  that  when  Spring 
comes,  after  all  the  fruits  of  the  Autumn  have  been 
gathered  and  the  dead  stalks  of  the  branches  have 
been  thrown  away,  there  will  come  with  the  new 
blossoms  a  new  Herbert  Woodbridge  —  [releases 
her  hand]  giving  you  a  new  love  and  life  worthy 
of  you.  And  the  happiness  you  crave. 

MARY.   [Sadly.]    Thank    you,    sir.     That    re- 


352  LOVERS'   LANE 

minds  me,  I  haven't  told  you  yet  why  I  came. 
It  was  to  give  you  back  your  ring. 

MINISTER.  But  I  thought  you  were  going  to 
keep  it  while  you  waited. 

MARY.  Yes,  but  T  have  told  Mr.  Woodbridge 
I  can  never  marry  him. 

MINISTER.  But  you  mustn't  decide  that  too 
suddenly  —  I  believe  I  was  not  quite  fair  to 
him  yesterday. 

MARY.  He  told  me  everything,  —  things  I'd 
never  heard  of  before.  I  didn't  think  him  that 
kind  of  a  man.  I  thought  him  good  like  you. 

MINISTER.  Perhaps  you  can  make  him  good. 
I'm  afraid  I'm  to  blame  for  your  feeling  this  way. 
Give  him  one  more  chance,  won't  you? 

MARY.  I  can't  promise  to  marry  him  if  I 
can't  love  him  when  he  comes  back. 

MINISTER.  I  don't  want  you  to  do  that. 
Only  give  him  a  chance  until  Spring. 


LOVERS'  LANE  353 

MARY.  I  will  if  you  wish  it.  But  you  must 
take  back  the  ring. 

MINISTER.   Well,  I  will  —  but  why  ? 

MARY.  [Going  toward  the  house.]  Because,  Dr. 
Singleton,  I  know  when  Herbert  comes  in  the 
Spring  my  heart  will  not  beat  one  bit  quicker. 

MINISTER.  Ah,  you  mustn't,  be  too  sure  !  It 
isn't  fair  to  him. 

MARY.  I  can't  help  it  —  I  know  now  I  shall 
never  marry.  Good-by. 

[She  walks  toward  the  porch. 

MINISTER.    [Following  her.}     And  my  wish? 

MARY.  You  see,  you  told  it,  so  it  can't  come 
true.  Good-by. 

[She  goes  into  the  house. 

MINISTER.  Good-by.  [He  watches  her  as  she 
disappears  through  the  door.]  What  am  I 
thinking  about  —  I  have  given  my  promise  to 
persuade  her  to  wait  till  the  Spring.  [.1  pause. 


354  LOVERS'  LANE 

SIMPLICITY  appears,  going  slowly.]  Till  Spring  — 
[He  <$its  on-  the  bench.}  Till  Spring.  \A  bird  sings 
in  the  tree,  and  SIMPLICITY  creeps  up  behind  him. 
The  MINISTER,  in  deep  study,  does  not  look  at  her.] 
Is  that  you,  Simple? 

SIMPLICITY.    [Half  crying]    Yes,  Pops.    I  know 
what's  the  matter  with  you,  Pops ! 

MINISTER.   There's  nothing  the  matter  with 
me,  Simple. 

SIMPLICITY.   [Crying.]     Pops,    you're    in    love 
with  her  ! 

MINISTER.   What  makes  you  think  so,  Simple? 

SIMPLICITY.    'Cause  when  she  went  into  the 
house  your  eyes  followed  her  and  —  Oh,  Pops  — 

[Throwing  her  arms  around  him  and  crying  still 
louder. 

MINISTER.  [Trying  to  comfort  her]  Why,  Simple, 
Simple  dear.    Why,  Simple,  what  is  it  —  what  is  it? 


LOVERS'   LANE  355 

SIMPLICITY.  [Kneeling  beside  him  — still 
louder.]  I  want  to  marry  you  myself ! 

MINISTER.  Why,  she's  going  to  marry  Mr. 
Woodbridge.  Lots  of  us  can't  marry  the  people 
we  want  to.  There,  there,  dear,  I'm  not  going 
to  marry  anyone  at  all.  [Rising.]  No  one  at  all. 

[He  lifts  her  up. 

SIMPLICITY.  Then  neither  am  I  —  I'll  be  an 
old  maid  like  Miss  Mattie. 

MINISTER.  Now,  wipe  your  eyes  and  cheer  up. 
I've  got  my  church  to  give  my  life  to.  I've  got 
my  church  to  comfort  me. 

[A  bird  sings  in  the  tree,  and  DEACON  STEELE, 
MR.   and    MRS.   BROWN,   MOLLY   MEALEY 
and  MRS.  STEELE  enter  through  the  gate. 
MR.  BROWN.    Good  evenin',  Minister. 
MINISTER.    Good  evening. 
DEACON  STEELE.    Good  evening !     We've  come 


356  LOVERS'   LANE 

to  see  you  on  a  serious  business.     Ahem!     We  — 

perhaps  we'd  better  go  into  the  house. 

MR.  BROWN.  There's  no  harm  in  staying 
here  —  it's  pleasant  after  the  close  Sunday-school 
room. 

MINISTER.  Yes,  I  wrote  to  town  this  evening 
for  some  new  ventilators  I  saw  advertised  in  the 
Observer. 

MR.  BROWN.  I  think,  Minister,  you'd  better 
send  Simple  in. 

MINISTER.  Yes,  you  go  in,  Simple.  Why, 
where's  your  milk? 

SIMPLICITY.  [From  the  foot  of  the  steps.]  The 
cow  kicked  over  the  pail  and  spilt  all  the  milk. 

MINISTER.   What  have  you  done  with  the  pail  ? 

SIMPLICITY.  Left  it  there.  'Cause  I  thought 
like  as  not  Miss  Mattie  would  make  me  go  back 
and  milk  her  all  over  again. 


LOVERS'   LANE  357 

[She  goes  into  the  house,     BROWN  laughs  heartily. 

STEELE.  What  are  you  laughing  at,  Brown? 
That  child  grows  worse  every  day. 

UNCLE  BILL.  [Enters  from  the  house.}  Good 
evening  —  good  evening  ! 

EVERYBODY.   Good  evening. 

UNCLE  BILL.  Nearly  time  for  evening  meeting. 
And  the  bell  has  never  rung  a  second  late  since 
old  Walters  took  to  ringing  it. 

[Goes  out. 

MINISTER.   I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late. 

STEELE.  Well,  Minister,  as  Mr.  Brown  told  yer, 
there's  bin  a  meetin'  of  the  Council  this  after 
noon— 

MINISTER.  Yes,  and  it  hurt  me  a  good  deal 
that  I  wasn't  wanted. 

MATTIE.  [Coming  out  from  the  house,  with  her 
bonnet  and  shawl  on.}  Good  evening. 


358  LOVERS'   LANE 

EVERYBODY.    Good  evening,  Miss  Mattie. 

MR.  BROWN.  Coin'  to  meetin'  pretty  early, 
Miss  Mattie. 

MATTIE.  Yes,  I  want  to  mend  our  seat  cushion 
before  it  begins.  Simple  wiggles  so  during  the 
sermon,  she  wears  her  place  out  in  no  time. 

[Goes  out. 

STEELE.  [To  J&e  MINISTER.]  I  guess  we'd  better 
be  quick  about  what  we've  come  to  say,  Minister. 
That  Council  was  called  because  of  the  dissatis 
faction,  ahem  —  the  —  I  may  say  wide-spread 
dis-sat-isf  action  that  has  —  ahem  —  that  has 
been  felt  by  your  entire  congregation  —  ahem  — 
for  some  time.  [Taking  out  Resolutions  from  his 
pocket.]  I  have  been  deputed  by  the  Council  to 
see  you  concerning  the  facts  which  they  set  forth 
with  a  —  ahem  —  great  generosity,  as  follows  : 
You  have  encouraged  beggars  by  taking  in  Aunt 


LOVERS'  LANE  359 

Melissy  and  old  Bill  Walters,  and  given  them  — 
ahem  —  a  home.  You  have  damaged  the  char 
acter  of  our  county  Orphan  Asylum  by  taking  in 
your  house  a  child  which  it  had  refused  to  shelter. 
You  have  robbed  of  her  position  the  faithful 
and  sweet  teacher  of  our  —  [MOLLY  weeps  silently. 
MRS.  BROWN  encourages  her  —  petting  her}  school 
to  further  your  own  ends.  And  for  fifteen  years 
you  have  neglected  —  ahem  —  I  can  put  this 
stronger  —  you  have  refused  to  take  a  helpmate 
from  your  congregation,  which  contains  many 
well-favored  women  willing  to  help  you  in  your 
work. 

MR.  BROWN.   Willing?    Anxious! 

[MRS.  BROWN  takes  MR.  BROWN  by  the  arm,  and 

jerks  him  roughly  to  her. 

STEELE.   We  ain't  satisfied  with  your  laxity 
and  freedom.     We  don't  want  a  new  doctrine 


360  LOVERS'  LANE 

upsettin'  the  old  order  —  we  don't  want  a  billiard 
table  in  the  young  men's  club.  We  don't  want 
playing  cards  in  the  social  parlors.  It's  rumored 
you've  even  written  a  sermon  upholdin'  the 
new-fangled  doctrine  of  there  being  no  such  thing 
as  Fire  and  Brimstun !  You  have  harbored  in 
your  house  a  woman  who  has,  of  her  own  free  will, 
sundered  her  marriage  vow,  thus  bringing  scandal 
on  the  community  —  ahem !  Do  you  deny  any 
of  these  charges? 

[The  choir  of  the  evening  meeting  is  heard  sing 
ing. 

MINISTER.  No. 

STEELE.   It  is,  then  —  my  —  ahem  —  painful 
duty  to  inform  you  that,  unless  Mrs.  Woodbridge 
and  her  child  leave  your  house  at  once,  the  Coun 
cil   feels    obliged    to    ask  —  ahem  —  demand  — 
your  resignation  —  to  take  effect  at  once. 


LOVERS'   LANE  361 

MINISTER,  At  once?  But  it's  time  for  eve 
ning  meeting  now. 

STEELE.  [Taking  ojff  his  glasses.]  Deacon  Frost 
has  kindly  volunteered  to  lead,  if  you  decide  to 
resign.  Will  you  give  us  your  answer  at  once? 

MINISTER.   Yes. 

MR.  BROWN.  Maybe  you'd  like  to  think  it 
over,  Minister.  If  so,  we  will  go  away  and  come 
back. 

[He  starts  to  go. 

MRS.  BROWN.  [Pulling  him  back.]  Oh,  no  we 
won't ! 

STEELE.   Well,  what  is  it? 

[All  breathless  —  impatient. 

MINISTER.  A  little  while  ago  I  said  to  my 
sister,  the  bell  in  that  little  square  tower  over 
there  has  never  rung  once  in  all  these  fifteen  years 
for  service  without  our  little  gate  latching  behind 


362  LOVERS'  LANE 

me  before  the  third  stroke,  but  if  it  should  ring 
till  midnight  to-night,  it  wouldn't  find  me  one 
step  nearer  than  I  am  now. 

STEELE.   That's  not  answering  us. 

MINISTER.  If  I  finish  the  sermon  that's  on  my 
desk  now,  I'm  afraid  it  would  be  a  plea  for 
Purgatory  after  all  — 

STEELE.  [To  the  others.]  Ah,  he's  compromis 
ing! 

MINISTER.  You  want  my  answer  —  well,  take 
it.  I  have  wasted  my  time  among  you  —  lost 
my  strength  —  and  if  you  were  to  withdraw 
every  one  of  your  charges  now,  my  answer  would 
still  be  the  same  —  I  am  ashamed  of  you  all ! 

STEELE.   Then  your  answer  is  — 

MINISTER.   My  resignation ! 

[The  MINISTER  stands  motionless.  They  all  go 
of  through  the  gate.  MOLLY  MEALEY  sobs. 


LOVERS'   LANE  363 

The  church  bell  rings,  which  brings  the  MINIS 
TER  to  his  senses.  He  starts  toward  the  gate 
as  if  to  go  to  church,  partly  opens  it,  and  walks 
slowly  back.  There  is  a  pause,  and  then  he 
sits  down  on  the  bench  under  the  tree  in  a  sort 
of  dream,  as 

THE   CURTAIN   FALLS 


ACT  IV 

SCENE  :     The    orchard.      The    same    set    as    for 
Act  III,  only  changed  from  an  Autumn  to  a 
Spring    morning.      The   apple    tree   is   in  full 
blossom.     An  easel  and  painting-stool,  paints, 
brushes,  etc.,  are  on  the  lawn.     SIMPLICITY  dis 
covered  by  the  tree,  examining  the  bark. 
SIMPLICITY.   I'm  sure  Pops  was  cutting  some 
thing  on  this  tree.     I  knew  it  —  he  was  cutting 
her  name  !     M-a-r-y  —      [She  tries  to  scratch  the 
letters  from  the  tree  with  a  knife.]     There,  I  won't 
have  her  name  on  my  apple  tree. 

MATTIE.   [Appears  at  an  upper  window  of  the 
house,    calling.}      Simple  —  Simple  —  [SIMPLICITY 
hides  behind  the  tree.]   I  guess  she's  gone  down  to  the 
364 


LOVERS'  LANE  365 

village.  [Speaking  back  into  the  room.]  Bridget, 
you're  positively  the  most  shiftless  person  I  ever 
knew—  [SIMPLICITY  climbs  up  into  the  tree.] 
I  declare  to  goodness  you  haven't  done  a  stroke 
of  work  to-day.  Nobody  could  have  rheumatism 
a  day  like  this.  [MARY  LARKIN  enters  from  the 
house.  She  goes  to  the  easel,  arranging  paints,  etc.] 
It's  only  an  excuse  to  get  out  of  your  work. 
[Catching  sight  of  Miss  LARKIN.]  Oh,  you  found 
your  way  out,  all  right.  I  wish  I  wasn't  so  over 
run  with  work  this  morning  —  I'd  sit  right  here  in 
the  window,  and  you  could  put  me  in  the  picture. 

MARY.  Thank  you,  but  I  didn't  intend  to  do 
the  house.  I  hope  I  haven't  interrupted  you  too 
much.  I  tried  to  come  across  the  hills  through 
the  gate  —  but  I  couldn't ;  it  was  fastened. 

MATTIE.  Yes,  siree,  —  when  I  came  home  from 
that  meeting  last  Fall,  led  by  old  Deacon  Frost, 


366  LOVERS'   LANE 

and  found  out  why  the  Minister  wasn't  there,  I 
nailed  up  that  gate  hard  with  a  hatchet.  And 
says  I  to  him,  "Nobody  goes  through  that  gate 
again  till  you  do, — back  to  your  rightful  place  in 
the  pulpit  yonder." 

MARY.  I  don't  blame  you,  Miss  Mattie.  You 
don't  mind  my  making  a  sketch  of  your  orchard, 
do  you? 

MATTIE.     Good  land,  no  ! 

MARY.  You  see,  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  ever 
get  here  again,  and  I  want  a  little  souvenir  of  the 
place. 

MATTIE.  It's  a  pity  you're  leaving  the  school 
—  it's  just  them  jealous  women  that's  making 
your  life  a  burden  here. 

MARY.   Oh,  no  !  [Begins  to  paint. 

MATTIE.  [Turning  from  the  window  and  speak 
ing  back  into  the  room.}  Now,  what  is  it,  Bridget  ? 


LOVERS'   LANE  367 

For  the  land's  sake,  put  a  hot  raisin  on  it,  and  tie 
your  cheek  up  with  a  hot  cloth.  But  don't  take 
to  having  the  toothache  too  often,  or  I'll  forbid 
you  that,  along  with  the  rheumatism.  [To  MARY.] 
For  the  goodness  sake,  Miss  Larkin,  if  you  ever 
marry,  don't  have  a  cook  in  poor  health. 

[MINISTER  enters  from  the  house  as  MATTIE  dis 
appears  from  the  window. 

SIMPLICITY.    [In    the    tree.]     Don't    she    think 
she's  smart  —  pretending  to  come  here  and  paint 
the  orchard.     Who   ever  heard  of  painting   an 
orchard  —  it's  just  an  excuse  to  see  Pops  ! 
MINISTER.    Good  morning. 
[At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  SIMPLICITY  starts,  but 
recovers  quickly.     The  MINISTER  looks   over 
MARY'S  shoulder  as  she  paints. 
MARY.    [Looking    up.]     Good     morning,     Dr. 
Singleton. 


368  LOVERS'   LANE 

SIMPLICITY.  [In  the  tree,  mocking  MARY.]  Good 
morning,  Dr.  Singleton. 

MINISTER.  {Looking  at  the  picture}  Oh,  you're 
putting  us  in  ? 

MARY.  Trying  to.  Do  you  remember  that 
day? 

MINISTER.  It  was  just  six  months  ago,  yester 
day. 

MARY.  Yesterday  —  and  Herbert  hasn't  come. 
Do  you  know  what  I  heard  in  the  village  this 
morning  ? 

MINISTER.   No  —  what  ? 

MARY.  [Smiling  and  painting}  The  new 
Minister's  leaving. 

MINISTER.  What !  The  last  one  —  why,  he's 
only  been  here  a  month. 

MARY.  I  know  it.  But  he  says  he  can't 
stand  it  —  there's  no  pleasing  them.  I  told  Mrs. 
Brown  I  was  glad  of  it. 


LOVERS'  LANE  369 

MINISTER.  You'd  better  look  out  or  she  won't 
let  you  board  with  her  any  longer. 

MARY.  What  do  you  think  —  she  agreed  with 
me! 

MINISTER.   No ! 

MARY.  Yes,  she  did,  and  she  said  it  would 
teach  the  people  a  lesson. 

BRIDGET.  [Coming  out  of  the  house  with  a  red 
flannel  cloth  tied  around  her  face,  as  if  suffer 
ing  from  toothache.]  If  you  plaze,  surr,  Miss 
Mattie's  after  asking  if  you're  going  to  the  post 
office? 

MINISTER.   Yes,  I'm  going  right  away,  Bridget. 
[BRIDGET  goes  back  into  the  house. 

MARY.  Doctor,  will  you  ask  if  there  are  any 
letters  for  me  too,  please  ? 

MINISTER.  Yes.  I  know  from  whom  you 
mean.  A  letter  or  he  must  come  to-day. 

[He  goes  toward  the  house. 


37o  LOVERS'   LANE 

MARY.   Good-by. 

[The  MINISTER  turns  at  the  porch. 

MINISTER.   Good-by. 

MARY.   Good-by ! 

SIMPLICITY.  [In  the  tree,  mockingly.}  Good- 
by  —  it's  about  time  she  went  back  to  her  own 
town  to  live  !  Anyhow,  I'm  going  to  get  Pops 
out  of  her  head. 

[Suddenly  jumps  from  the  treeJrighteningMARY. 

MARY.   Oh,  how  you  frightened  me  ! 

SIMPLICITY.   Did  I  —  what  'cher  doing  ? 

[Going  over  to  MARY. 

MARY.   Painting. 

SIMPLICITY.   What? 

MARY.   The  orchard  —  don't  you  see? 

SIMPLICITY.  [Coming  behind  her,  and  looking 
over  MARY'S  shoulder,  she  rubs  her  finger  on  the 
canvas.}  What's  that? 


LOVERS'   LANE  371 

MARY.    Oh,  please  be  careful  —  you'll  spoil  it. 

SIMPLICITY.    [Sulkily.]     'Scuse  me ! 

MARY.  That's  the  bench  under  the  tree,  with 
Dr.  Singleton  on  it. 

SIMPLICITY.  Who's  that  going  to  be  by  him  - 
Mis'  Woodbridge? 

MARY.  No,  I  am  on  the  bench.  [After  a 
pause.]  Simple,  what  made  you  think  it  was  Mrs. 
Woodbridge  ? 

SIMPLICITY.  'Cause  Pops  is  in  love  with  her. 
[Waiting  to  see  the  effect.]  I  say  Pops  is  in  love 
with  Mrs.  Woodbridge.  That's  why  he  took 
up  for  her  against  the  church.  I  guess  they'll  be 
married  soon. 

MARY.  [Rising  from  the  stool.]  I  don't  believe 
it! 

SIMPLICITY.  Don't  you?  That's  because  you're 
in  love  with  him  yourself. 


372  LOVERS'   LANE 

MARY.  How  dare  you  say  that  —  how  dare 
you  ?  You're  a  bad,  impudent  little  girl  —  that's 
what  you  are  ! 

SIMPLICITY.  I  thought  I'd  make  you  mad 
before  I  got  through.  Everybody  sees  you're 
in  love  with  him. 

MARY.  [Half  crying  —  very  angry.]  You've 
no  right  to  say  such  a  thing  !  Suppose  he  had 
heard  you  ?  I  —  I  —  I  hate  you  !  [Going  up  to 
the  picture.]  Simplicity,  I  hate  you  —  I  hate 
you!  You'll  see  if  I  love  him.  [She  takes  her 
palette  knife  from  the  easel,  and  zig-zags  across  the 
picture.]  There,  there,  there!  I  wouldn't  do 
that  if  I  loved  him  !  And  you  can  tell  everybody 
who's  said  so  that  I  love  Herbert  —  Woodbridge, 
and  that  he's  coming  to  marry  me  to-day.  Oh, 
you  spiteful  little  thing  — I  hate  you  — I  hate 
you! 


LOVERS'  LANE  373 

[She  drops  the  knife  and  rushes  away  through  the 

trees. 

SIMPLICITY.  [Watches  her  out  of  sight;  then  she 
picks  up  the  camp  stool  and  knocks  down  the  easel.] 
I  hate  you  too  —  I  hate  you  !  I've  separated  you 
and  Pops,  but  I  wish  I  was  dead ! 

[She  throws  herself  on  the  bench  and  sobs  vio 
lently.     MRS.    BROWN,    carrying   a   parasol, 
and  Miss  MEALEY  appear  at  the  gate,  trying 
to  open  it,  but  cannot. 
Miss  MEALEY.   I  can't  open  it. 
MRS.  BROWN.   Let     me     try  —  you     haven't 
strength  enough  to  kill  a  mosquito. 

[She  struggles  with  the  locked  gate,  but  fails  to 

open  it.     The  noise  arouses  SIMPLICITY. 
SIMPLICITY.   You  can't  get  in  that  way  —  Miss 
Mattie's  nailed  Lovers'  Lane  up. 
MRS.   BROWN.   [From    the    other    side    of    the 


374  LOVERS'   LANE 

gate,  very  sweetly.}    Oh,  Simplicity,  how  do  you 

do? 

Miss  MEALEY.   How  do  you  do  ? 

SIMPLICITY.  [Not  moving  from  the  bench.]  My 
health's  pretty  good,  I  thank  you.  You'll  have 
to  go  around  to  the  front  if  you  want  to  get  in. 

MRS.  BROWN.  Oh,  dear  !  We  haven't  time  to 
do  that. 

Miss  MEALEY.  Perhaps  if  Miss  Mattie  knew 
what  we  come  for,  she'd  let  us  in  this  way. 

SIMPLICITY.   Well,  I'll  call  her.     Miss  Mattie 
-  Miss  Mattie  —  Miss  Mattie  ! 

[She  runs  into  the  house. 

MRS.  BROWN.  [Still  outside  the  gate.]  Now, 
Molly  Mealey,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  make  a 
fool  of  yourself  like  the  last  time  you  were  here. 
Throwing  out  hints  to  Dr.  Singleton,  after  being 
snubbed  by  everyone  of  those  new  preachers ! 


LOVERS'  LANE  375 

You  ought  to  begin  to  see  the  Lord  never  intended 
you  for  a  minister's  wife. 

Miss  MEALEY.  I  wish  you'd  mind  your  own 
business,  Mrs.  Brown.  Just  because  you're  the 
mother  of  seven,  you  needn't  think  nobody  else 
can  have  a  chance  —  I'm  something  of  a  flirt, 
but  I'm  not  fickle  ! 

[MATTIE  comes  from  the  house. 

MRS.  BROWN.  [At  the  gate,  very  pleasantly.] 
Good  morning,  Miss  Mattie. 

MATTIE.   [Shortly.]    How  do  you  do  ? 

MRS.  BROWN.   We  just  thought  we'd  drop  in. 

MATTIE.  It's  taken  you  about  six  months  to 
think  it. 

Miss  MEALEY.   Can  we  get  in  this  way? 

MATTIE.  Yes. 

Miss  MEALEY  and  MRS.  BROWN.  [Very 
pleased.]  O-oh ! 


376  LOVERS'   LANE 

MATTIE.    If  you  can  climb  ! 

MRS.  BROWN.   Oh,  now,  Miss  Mattie ! 

MATTIE.  No,  siree.  When  you  shut  that  gate 
against  the  Minister,  you  shut  it  against  your 
selves  too. 

MRS.  BROWN.  But  we've  come  to  open  it 
again  for  him,  now. 

MATTIE.   What? 

Miss  MEALEY.  And  we've  come  to  ask  if 
you'll  let  the  Sewing  Circle  meet  here  next  week? 

MATTIE.   Why? 

MRS.  BROWN.  And  the  choir  wants  to  know  if 
Mrs.  Woodb ridge  will  be  willing  to  sing  again, 
beginning  next  Sunday? 

MATTIE.    Good  land ! 

Miss  MEALEY.  Do  let  the  Sewing  Circle  meet 
here,  Miss  Mattie  ! 

MATTIE.   Is  the  world  coming  to  an  end? 


LOVERS'   LANE  377 

MRS.  BROWN.   And   do    try   and   make   Mis' 
Woodbridge  sing  ! 

MATTIE.  Well,  I  am  —  Uncle  Bill  —  Uncle  Bill ! 

UNCLE  BILL.   [From  the  house.]     Yes? 

MATTIE.  .Come  here  and  see  if  you  can  open 
Lovers'  Lane  gate. 

UNCLE  BILL.    [Comes    out    to    open    the    gate.] 
Good  day,  Mis'  Brown  and  Miss  Mealey. 

[He  tries  the  gate  to  see  how  it  is  nailed. 

MRS.     BROWN    and    Miss    MEALEY.     Good 
morning,  Uncle  Bill. 

MATTIE.   [Calling.]     Bridget  —  Bridget ! 

BRIDGET.   [Comes  to  the  door.]     Yes'm. 

MATTIE.   Tell  Aunt  Melissy  to  bring  a  hatchet. 

BRIDGET.   All  right,  marm  —  I  will. 

[Goes  in. 

MATTIE.   [Going  over  to  the  gate,  too.]     I'll  get 
the  gate  open,  and  then  we  can  talk  it  over. 


3?8  LOVERS'  LANE 

MRS.  BROWN.  We've  come  to  tell  you,  too, 
there's  a  Council  being  held  in  the  Sunday-school 
room,  and  Brown  told  me,  confidential,  he  thought 
they  were  going  to  draw  up  Resolutions  begging 
Dr.  Singleton  to  come  back. 

[AUNT  MELISSY  comes,  bringing  the  hatchet.  She 
has  the  slippers  also. 

MATTIE.  [Following  AUNT  MELISSY.  UNCLE 
BILL  takes  the  hatchet  from  AUNT  MELISSY,  and 
works  at  the  gate.]  It's  about  time ! 

UNCLE  BILL.   The  Minister  coming  back? 

[He  sings  "Glory,  glory,  Hallelujah  /"  as  the  gate 
gives  way. 

MATTIE.  [Holds  the  gate  open  and  then  all, 
except  UNCLE  BILL  and  AUNT  MELISSY,  come 
through  on  their  way  to  the  house.]  I  think  we'll 
go  right  into  the  setting-room  and  talk  things  over. 

MRS.  BROWN.   Yes  —  let's. 


LOVERS'  LANE  379 

Miss  MEALEY.   Is  Dr.  Singleton  there? 

[AUNT  MELISSY  goes  over  and  sits  on  the  bench. 

MATTIE.  No  —  he's  gone  down  to  the  post 
office  —  don't  know  as  he'll  be  willing  to  go  back 
to  the  church.  He  feels  dreadfully  injured  at  the 
way  he's  been  treated. 

[They  all,  except  AUNT  MELISSY  and  UNCLE 
BILL,  go  in  the  house. 

UNCLE  BILL.  [Going  to  bench,  as  if  to  sii  down 
by  AUNT  MELISSY.  Sees  no  room,  so  moves  around 
her  to  the  other  side.]  I  think  I'll  sit  down  a  spell, 
if  there  ain't  no  objections. 

AUNT  MELISSY.   H-a-y-e - 

UNCLE  BILL.  I  say  I  think  I'll  sit  down  a  spell, 
if  there  ain't  no  objections.  [Sitting  beside  her. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  I'll  be  glad  to  have  you,  Mr. 
Bill. 

UNCLE    BILL.     [Opening    the    grammar.]     I've 


380  LOVERS'   LANE 

been  studying  this  yere  grammar  for  nigh  onto 
six  months  —  and  don't  seem  to  get  on  very  well 
with  it. 

AUNT  MELISSY.  [Playing  with  the  slippers.] 
Never  mind  the  grammar,  Billy.  Grammar  isn't 
everything.  Will  you  take  the  slippers  back? 
You  see,  I've  kep'  'em. 

UNCLE  BILL.  [Taking  them,]  I'll  wear  them 
next  my  heart. 

AUNT  MELISSY.   Yes,  I  was  a  silly  old  woman  — 

UNCLE  BILL.  No,  you  wasn't.  [Rising  and 
walking  toward  the  gate.]  Come  along  with  me 
down  Lovers'  Lane.  I  want  to  find  out  if  it's 
true  they're  going  to  ask  the  Minister  to  come 
back.  And  if  it  is,  I'm  going  to  ring  the  old  bell 
for  him  and  for  us. 

HERBERT.  [Enters  at  the  gate.]  Is  Dr.  Single 
ton  in  ? 


LOVERS'   LANE  381 

UNCLE  BILL.  No.  But  he  will  be,  soon.  How- 
somever,  this  ain't  the  front  door. 

[AUNT  MELISSY  rises  and  follows  UNCLE  BILL. 
HERBERT.   No,  but  they  told  me  this  was  a 
short  cut  from  the  depot,  and  I'm  in  a  hurry. 
[UNCLE  BILL  and  AUNT  MELISSY  go  out  through 
the  gate,  humming  "  Comin1  through  the  Rye  " 
in  discord.     HERBERT  knocks  at  the  door  of  the 
house. 

BRIDGET.  [Calling  from  the  window  above.} 
Who's  down  there?  [HERBERT  comes  out  to  the 
steps,  and  when  she  sees  him  she  says :]  Ah  —  we 
don't  want  to  buy  anything. 

HERBERT.  [Looking  up^  I  haven't  anything 
to  sell.  Is  Dr.  Singleton  at  home? 

BRIDGET.  Oh,  it's  a  caller  yer  are  ?  I  axes  your 
pardon,  but  yer  shouldn't  come  around  to  the 
back  door.  The  Minister's  out. 


382  LOVERS'  LANE 

HERBERT.   When  will  he  be  back  ? 

BRIDGET.  Sure,  it's  like  to  be  at  any  minute. 
Will  yez  come  in? 

HERBERT.   No,  I'll  wait  here  if  I  may  - 

BRIDGET.   You  may. 

[Leaves  the  window. 

MARY.  [Coming  down  through  the  orchard.} 
Herbert  !  —  [She  is  startled,  but  recovers  herself.] 
You  have  come  back. 

HERBERT.  Yes,  Mary  —  [He  puts  out  his  hand 
• —  she  takes  it.]  I  went  to  East  Eddysville,  and 
they  said  you  were  living  at  Eddys  Corners. 

MARY.  I  came  over  this  morning  to  do  a 
sketch  of  the  orchard,  because  —  because  —  I 
thought  soon,  perhaps,  I'd  be  going  away  for 
good,  and  I  wanted  something  to  remember  — 
Herbert,  I  know  when  you  went  away  I  promised 
to  marry  you.  I  can't  do  it  —  don't  ask  me  to  ! 


LOVERS'   LANE  383 

HERBERT.   What  do  you  mean,  Mary? 

MARY.   I  don't  love  you  any  longer. 

HERBERT.  Mary,  I  have  been  dreading  for 
weeks  confessing  to  you,  but  now  you  have  made 
it  easy  for  me. 

MARY.   Made  what? 

HERBERT.  I've  done  pretty  well  —  I've  finished 
with  most  of  the  old  life.  I  felt  I  ought  to  tell  you 
when  I  came  back,  I  hadn't  done  it  all  for  you. 
I  never  loved  you  as  a  man  should  love  a  woman 
whom  he  asks  to  marry  him.  I  know  you  will 
probably  despise  me  —  I  have  been  turned  adrift 
by  my  wife  whom,  in  spite  of  everything,  I  love 
and  always  will  love.  I  was  lonely  and  hard  up 
and  liked  you,  and  your  money  would  have 
pulled  me  out  of  a  bad  hole.  Do  you  believe 
such  a  man  as  that  could  ever  come  to  anything  ? 

MARY.   Yes  —  Dr.  Singleton  says  there  is  good 


384  LOVERS'   LANE 

in  everybody,  only  sometimes  other  bodys  won't 

take  the  time  or  trouble  to  find  it  out. 

HERBERT.  Dr.  Singleton  says  —  Mary,  is  it 
Dr.  Singleton  who  has  made  this  orchard  dear  to 
you? 

MARY.   It  isn't  fair  to  ask  me  that  - 

HERBERT.  Why  not?  We  must  seal  our 
friendship  —  you  and  I  —  with  our  confidences. 
I  shall  have  something  to  tell  you. 

MARY.  But  Dr.  Singleton  does  not  care  for 
me. 

HERBERT.  You  mean  he  hasn't  shown  you  his 
love  —  that's  my  fault.  I  say  he  loved  you  the 
day  he  gave  you  the  ring  in  his  study.  I  saw  he 
loved  you. 

MARY.  No  —  no  !  You're  wrong.  He  is  go 
ing  to  marry  - 

HERBERT.  Who? 


LOVERS'   LANE  385 

MARY.   Can't  you  guess? 
HERBERT.   Lucy? 
MARY.   Yes. 

HERBERT.   Why  did  I  never  think  of  it  ?     Why 
did  I  never  see  that  danger  ? 

[HERBERT  sees  MRS.  WOODBRIDGE  at  the  window. 
He  moves  closer  to  the  house  so  as  not  to  be  seen. 
Little  DICK  appears  at  the  window,  too. 
HERBERT.   And  I've  been  hoping  she  might 
try  to  forgive   me  —  but   it's  only    just  —  only 
just  — 

[He  breaks  of  to  listen.  MRS.  WOODBRIDGE  is 
singing  a  song  to  DICK.  HERBERT  touches 
MARY  to  listen. 

MARY.   Sh  —  sh  —  there  she  is. 
HERBERT.   My  boy,  my  boy!     Do  you  think 
she's  coming  out  here?     I'd  rather  go  away  with 
out  her  seeing  me. 


386  LOVERS'   LANE 

MARY.  [Gathers  together  her  painting  things  and 
easel.}  She  won't  come  here. 

[MRS.  WOODBRIDGE  leaves  the  window. 

HERBERT.  [Tries  stealthily  to  see  the  boy.]  The 
sight  of  me  now  would  only  cast  a  shadow  over 
her  new  happiness. 

MARY.  I  never  dreamed  Dr.  Singleton  cared 
for  her  in  that  way. 

HERB  ERT .  [Coming  closer  to  MARY  . ]  I'd  like  to 
see  my  boy  just  once.  Could  you  bring  Dick  out 
to  me  without  her  knowing?  I  won't  tell  him 
who  I  am.  I  should  like  to  see  him. 

MARY.   I'll  go  and  get  him  —  [She  goes. 

HERBERT.  [To  himself.]  I  oughtn't  to  have 
asked  her  to  carry  him.  He's  too  heavy. 

[MARY  enters  from  the  house,  leading  DICK. 

HERBERT.  [Starts  with  astonishment]  Why,  he's 
walking  —  but  he  was  lame  —  it  isn't  my  Dick  1 


LOVERS'  LANE  387 

MARY.   Yes,  it  is. 
[Helps  little  DICK  down  one  or  two  steps ;  leaves 

him  with  his  father,  turning  back  into  house. 
HERBERT.    [Kneeling  and  holding  out  his  hands 
to  DICK.]     Is  your  name  Dick?     [DICK  nods  his 
head,  "Yes."}     You  aren't  afraid  of  me?     [DICK 
makes  no  answer.}     Why,  of  course  not  —  [DICK 
shakes  his  head,  "No";  then,  with  a  sudden  im 
pulse,  goes  toward  his  father.}    Why,  I  wouldn't  hurt 
you.     [Kneeling,  he  takes  the  child  in  his  arms,  and 
clasps  him  to  him  with  emotion.}     Why,  I'm  your 
-  I'm  your  —  My  God  !  -      What  am  I  to  say  ? 
I'm  your   friend  —  your  friend  —  [He  holds  the 
boy  before  him.}     There  now,  you're  taller  than  I 
am,  aren't  you  ?     I  thought  you  were  a  little  lame 
boy  —  you  were  once,  weren't  you  ?     [DICK  nods 
"Yes."]     I    thought    so  —  I    thought    so  —  It's 
your  mother  who  has  done  all  this  for  you  —  I 


388  LOVERS'   LANE 

thought  so!     You  can  never  love  your  mother 
enough!     Do   you   hear    that?     Never!     When 
you  grow  up,  you  must  love  her  just  the  same,  and 
when  she  grows  old,  you  must  hold  her  close  to 
your  heart  —  and  cherish  her  always  —  will  you? 
Will  you,  Dick?     [Dick  nods  "  Yes."}     Ah,  you 
don't   understand   all   that,   do    you,   my  boy? 
[DiCK  shakes  Us  head}    No,  and  you  don't  know 
what  it  is  to  see  something  you  want  with  all  your 
soul  belong  to  another,  and  know  that  you  threw 
her  away.     Dick  —  Dick  —  listen,  my  little  man! 
Do  you  ever  hear  of  a  father  ?     [Dick  nods  "  Yes.11] 
And  your  mother  lets  you  speak  of  him?     [He 
nods  "Yes."]    When?    [DiCK  folds  his  little  hands 
together.]     When  you  pray  ?     When  you  -      Oh, 
my  God !     [He  breaks  down.     DICK  pushes  away, 
frightened.]     There  —  there,  I've  been  frightening 
you.     Don't  be  frightened   of   me  —  because  I 
want  you  to  kiss  me  —  will  you?    I  want  you 


LOVERS'  LANE  389 

to  put  your  two  arms  around  my  neck  —  around 
my  neck,  —  just  as  you  do  about  your  mother's. 
Will  you,  Dick? 

[MRS.  WOODBRIDGE  appears  on  the  porch. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.   Herbert ! 

HERBERT.  [The  child  runs  to  MRS.  WOOD- 
BRIDGE.]  Lucy ! 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  You  see  he  is  well  —  quite 
well. 

HERBERT.  Yes  —  you  won't  begrudge  me  my 
moment  with  him,  will  you? 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  [With  her  arm  around 
DICK.]  Begrudge  you?  — 

HERBERT.  I  didn't  mean  you  should  have  seen 
me.  I  meant  to  have  just  spoken  to  Dick,  and 
then  stolen  away. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  You  didn't  want  me  to  see 
you? 

HERBERT.   No. 


39o  LOVERS'   LANE 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  I  understand  you  came 
back  for  Mary  Larkin,  and  you  find  she  belongs 
to  Dr.  Singleton  ? 

HERBERT.   Not  belongs  —  Lucy  — -  Mrs.  — 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Why  not?  They  love 
each  other  — 

HERBERT.   But  she  just  told  me  he  loves  you. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Me?  —  Oh,  no!  What 
made  her  tell  you  that  ? 

HERBERT.   I  don't  know. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Then  it  wasn't  for  her  you 
came  back  ? 

HERBERT.   No.     I  came  back  for  you  ! 

[MRS.  WOODBRIDGE  starts. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  For  me?  Is  it  true — is 
it  true  —  [The  tears  come  to  her  eyes. 

HERBERT.  [Leads  her  to  the  bench,  and  sits  beside 
her.]  Am  I  worth  trying  to  save  ? 


LOVERS'  LANE  391 

[MRS.   WOODBRIDGE   nods    her   head,    "Yes"} 

HERBERT.  [Taking  her  hand  gently]  Lucy  —  I 
don't  deserve  it.  I  have  turned  over  a  new  leaf, 
and  with  you  to  help  me,  I'll  never  turn  this  page 
back.  [There  is  a  pause. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  [Withdraws  her  hand,  and 
rises.]  Won't  you  come  and  walk  with  Dick  and 
me  down  Lovers'  Lane? 

HERBERT.   [Hesitating   and   smiling   at   DICK.] 
Yes  —  yes  —  or  —  no  —  we'll   make   a    chair  - 
have  you  forgotten  ? 

[They  cross  hands,  forming  a  saddle,  and  kneel  so 
DICK  can  reach. 

MRS.  WOODBRIDGE.  Now  —  sit  down.  Put  one 
arm  around  mother's  neck  and  one  arm  around  — 

HERBERT.  Mine  —  there  —  that's  a  dandy 
chair  for  you  — 

[They  lift  him  up  and  carry  him  through  the  gate, 


392  LOVERS'   LANE 

down   Lovers'    Lane.    MRS.    BROWN,    Miss 
MEALEY  and  MATTIE  enter  from  house. 

MRS.  BROWN.  I  must  say,  it  has  seemed  real 
good  to  be  sitting  in  the  Parsonage  again. 

MATTIE.  Well  —  I'm  sure  you've  your  own 
self  to  thank  for  not  having  been  here  of tener  —  1 
[Calling  to  the  house.]  Simplicity!  What's  got 
into  the  child  ? 

[SIMPLICITY  enters,  holding  one  hand  behind  her 
back. 

MATTIE.  Take  your  thumb  out  of  your  mouth  ! 
Well,  where  on  earth  have  you  been? 

SIMPLICITY.   Up  in  the  garret. 

MATTIE.   What  were  you  doing  up  there  ? 

SIMPLICITY.   Sitting  in  a  corner. 

MATTTE.  Good  land  !  —  where's  Mrs.  Brown's 
parasol  —  she  says  she  gave  it  to  you  to  put  away 
for  her  — 


LOVERS'  LANE  393 

SIMPLICITY.  [Takes  the  parasol  from  behind  her 
back.  MATTIE  grabs  it  and  hands  it  to  MRS. 
BROWN.]  I  took  it  upstairs  with  me  without 
thinking  — -  I'm  sorry  — 

MATTIE.  She  says  she's  sorry !  What's  come 
over  the  child  ? 

MRS.  BROWN.   You  ain't  sick,  air  you,  Simple? 

SIMPLICITY.  No,  marm.  [Running  to  the  gate.] 
I'll  open  the  gate  fur  yer. 

MRS.  BROWN.  [Going  to  the  gate.]  Thank  you, 
Simple. 

Miss  MEALEY.  And  the  Circle  can  meet  here 
next  Thursday? 

MATTIE.   I  suppose  so. 

Miss  MEALEY.  Thank  you  ever  so  much,  Miss 
Mattie.  Good-by. 

MATTIE.   Good-by. 

MRS.   BROWN.    [Outside  the  gate.]     Good-by ! 


394  LOVERS'   LANE 

[Goes  down  Lovers'   Lane.     MATTIE   goes  into 
the  house. 

Miss  MEALEY.  [To  SIMPLICITY.]  What  a  big 
girl  you're  gettin',  Simple  —  you'll  be  havin'  a 
beau  soon,  takin'  you  home  from  church. 

[Goes  out,  laughing. 

SIMPLICITY.  [Closing  the  gate.}  I  don't  want 
any  beau. 

[The  MINISTER  enters  from  the  house  with  a  letter. 

MINISTER.  [Looks  over  to  where  the  easel  stood.] 
Miss  Larkin  —  has  she  finished  already  ?  I'll  ask 
Mattie. 

[Going  toward  the  house. 

SIMPLICITY.    [Calls  after  him.}     Pops  — 

MINISTER.   Hello  —  what  is  it  ? 

SIMPLICITY.    Who  are  you  looking  for,  Pops? 

MINISTER.    Miss  Larkin. 

SIMPLICITY.    What  do  you  want  her  for,  Pops  ? 


LOVERS'   LANE  395 

MINISTER.  I've  got  a  letter  that'll  interest  her. 
The  young  man  that  wants  to  marry  her  will  be 
here  to-day. 

SIMPLICITY.  Oh  —  Pops !  Mrs.  Brown  and 
Miss  Mealey  have  been  here,  to  have  the  Sewing 
Circle  meet  here  again. 

MINISTER.   You  don't  say  so ! 

SIMPLICITY.  And  I  believe  you're  going  ter  get 
your  church  back  again. 

MINISTER.  Simple,  I'd  rather  have  that  than 
anything  else  in  the  world  —  except  one  other 
thing  — 

SIMPLICITY.  I  don't  suppose  that  other  thing's 
me  —  is  it,  Pops? 

MINISTER.  No  —  I've  got  you,  anyway.  We 
can't  have  everything  we  want  in  this  world. 

SIMPLICITY.  I  know  that  too,  Pops.  Which 
would  you  rather  have,  Pops  —  the  church  or  her  ? 


396  LOVERS'  LANE 

MINISTER.  You  mustn't  tempt  me,  Simple, 
with  such  questions. 

SIMPLICITY.  Pops  —  why  isn't  there  a  com 
mandment,  "Thou  shalt  not  lie"? 

MINISTER.  Perhaps  the  Lord  didn't  think  one 
necessary,  Simple. 

SIMPLICITY.  Then  he  doesn't  know  me. 
"Thou  shalt  not  lie,  or  thou  shalt  wish  thou  were 
dead."  Pops,  did  you  ever  tell  a  lie? 

MINISTER.   Yes,  a  good  many  when  I  was  little. 

SIMPLICITY.  Oh,  Pops  —  I'm  so  glad !  Lies 
that  hurt  other  people? 

MINISTER.   No,  they  hurt  only  myself. 

[MATTIE  comes  from  the  house:  BROWN  enters 
from  the  gate. 

MR.  BROWN.  [Over  the  gate.]  Good  morning, 
Doctor. 

MINISTER.   Good  morning. 


LOVERS'   LANE  397 

MATTIE.  Good  morning.  Come  in  —  the 
gate's  open. 

MR.  BROWN.  [Surprised,  enters,  looks  back  at  the 
gate  and  shakes  his  head  gladly.}  Glad  to  hear  it  — 

SIMPLICITY.  Pops,  I'm  going  down  into  the 
orchard.  If  you'll  give  me  Miss  Larkin's  letter, 
I'll  give  it  to  her. 

MINISTER.  I  forgot  all  about  it  —  she'll  be 
anxious  to  know  !  Do,  Simple  ! 

[He  gives  her  the  letter. 

SIMPLICITY.  [Goes  behind  the  tree,  keeping  her 
eyes  on  the  MINISTER.  She  tears  up  the  letter  and 
throws  it  on  the  ground.]  There ! 

[She  runs  of. 

MR.  BROWN.  Ahem !  [Very  nervously.]  Doc 
tor  —  we  —  I  - 

MINISTER.   Yes? 

MATTIE.    For  goodness'  sake  —  Mr.  Brown,  say 


398  LOVERS'   LANE 

it  right  out,  or  I  will !      [To  MINISTER.]     There's 
-  there's  a  Council  being  held  over  there  in  the 
Sunday-school    room    to    consider  —  can't    you 
guess,  Tom  ? 

MINISTER.   I'm  afraid  to  - 

MATTIE.  You  needn't  be  —  it's  asking  you  to 
come  back. 

MR.  BROWN.  [Still  nervously.}  I've  come  over 
to  find  out  if  you'll  be  likely  to  accept.  Of  course, 
it  ain't  decided  yet  —  it  ain't  been  put  to  a  vote, 
and  we  don't  know  exactly  how  the  majority  will 
stand,  but  I  think  you'll  get  it  — 

MATTIE.  [Whispering  to  the  MINISTER.] 
Frighten  him  a  little  — go  on  —  don't  jump  at 
it- 

MINISTER.  Well,  Mr.  Brown,  there  are  a  few 
points  I'd  like  to  make  about  that  paper  you 
drew  up. 


LOVERS'   LANE  399 

MR.  BROWN.  The  Council  has  thought  of  that, 
and  has  decided  what  to  do  in  case  they  ask  your 
acceptance  of  the  pulpit. 

MINISTER.  First,  how  about  my  encouraging 
beggars,  by  giving  old  Aunt  Melissy  a  home  ? 

MR.  BROWN.  We  thought  of  trying  to  make  up 
for  that  by*  making  her  an  honorary  member  of 
the  Ladies'  Sewing  Circle. 

MINISTER.  Will  you  kindly  make  a  note  of 
that,  Mr.  Brown  ?  And  I  would  like  to  have  her 
made  Treasurer. 

MR.  BROWN.  [Startled.]  Treasurer?  Why, 
Mrs.  Brown  is  Treas  — 

MINISTER.  I  said  Treasurer.  Second,  how 
about  my  having  damaged  the  Orphan  Asylums 
of  the  State—? 

MR.  BROWN.  We've  made  certain  arrange 
ments  with  them,  and  each  Asylum  shall  send 


400  LOVERS'  LANE 

you  a  written  application  for  the  privilege  of 
taking  care  of  Simplicity. 

MINISTER.  Very  good.  Of  course  we  wouldn't 
think  of  parting  with  Simple,  but  I  shall  see 
that  each  one  of  the  Asylums  is  supplied  with 
a  good,  troublesome  orphan  in  her  place.  But 
there  is  one  really  serious  thing  —  the  Council 
dared  to  accuse  me  of  neglecting  my  duty. 

MR.  BROWN.  That,  they  realize,  warn't  true 
and  warn't  desarved? 

MINISTER.   If  they  want  me  — 

MR.  BROWN.  Well? 

MINISTER.   I'll  come  back  — 

MR.  BROWN.  [Shaking  his  hand  heartily.] 
Thank  you,  Doctor  —  you'll  come  back  —  you'll 
come  back  —  or,  drat  it,  I'll  give  up  my  pew! 

[He  hurries  of  through  the  gate.  MATTIE  fans 
herself  furiously  with  her  apron. 


LOVERS'  LANE  401 

MINISTER.   Mattie ! 

MATTIE.    [With  excitement.]     Eh? 

MINISTER.   Kiss  me. 

MATTIE.  [Kisses  him.  Half  crying  with  joy, 
she  fans  furiously.]  I'm  so  glad  ! 

MINISTER.  [With  happy  excitement,  looking 
down  Lovers'  Lane.}  Do  you  think  the  Council 
will  call  me? 

MATTIE.  If  they  don't,  I'll  burst-  [The 
MINISTER  walks  up  and  down  with  emotion} 
I'm  going  into  the  house  to  work,  or  I  can't 
stand  it.  [She  goes  into  the  house. 

SIMPLICITY.  [Comes  through  the  orchard,  lead 
ing  MARY,  who  is  very  nervous.]  You  hide  behind 
that  tree  —  anyone  can  tell  the  whole  thing  by 
your  face.  [MARY  hides.  Then  SIMPLICITY  turns 
to  MINISTER,  stolidly.]  Pops  —  I'm  a  liar  - 

MINISTER.   [Stunned.]     Good  gracious,  Simple ! 


402  LOVERS'  LANE 

SIMPLICITY,  [Standing  her  ground]  It's  true, 
And  I've  come  to  tell  you  that  I'm  going  back 
to  the  Asylum  for  punishment. 

[She  starts  to  go.     He  catches  her  by  her  dress 
and  holds  her  fast. 

MINISTER.  Never,  Simple,  never  —  I  wouldn't 
let  you ! 

SIMPLICITY.   Do  you  forgive  me  for  the  lie? 

MINISTER.   Yes. 

SIMPLICITY.   But  it  hurt  you. 

MINISTER.   Me?  [Surprised. 

SIMPLICITY.  Oh,  you  don't  forgive  that  — 
[Crying.]  You  don't  forgive  that? 

MINISTER.  [Beseechingly.]  Yes,  I  do,  dear, 
yes,  I  do! 

SIMPLICITY.  Then  kiss  me.  [He  kisses  her, 
watching  her  wonderingly.]  I'm  so  sorry  —  I'm 
so  sorry  —  but  I've  owned  up,  Pops  —  I've 


LOVERS'   LANE  403 

owned  up !     [She  goes  to  the  tree  and  brings  MARY 
to  the  MINISTER.]     Look  what  I've  brought  you. 
MINISTER.    [Bewildered.]     Where's  Herbert? 
MARY.    [Shyly.]     With  Mrs.  Woodbridge. 
MINISTER.   With  Mrs.  Woodbridge? 
MARY.    Yes,  it  was  for  her  he  came  back. 
MINISTER.   And  you? 
MARY.    [Hesitating.]     Simplicity  says  - 
SIMPLICITY.    I  told  her  —  I  told  her  — 
[She  moves  away  to  the  tree,  but  watches  them 

wistfully. 

MINISTER.    [Whispering    to    MARY.]     That    I 
love  you  — 

MARY.    No,  that  /  love  you. 
MINISTER.   Wrill  you  say  "yes"? 
MARY.   With  all  my  heart. 

[He  clasps  her  hands  in  his. 
MATTIE.    [From  the   window   above.]     For   the 


404  LOVERS'   LANE 

land's  sake,  look  at  old  Deacon  Perkins  trying 

to  run  across  the  field  ! 

SIMPLICITY.  [Running  out  of  the  gate.]  Just 
look  —  there's  Mr.  Brown  and  Deacon  Steele 
and  Mrs.  Brown  and  a  lot  of  them  all  running 
over  here. 

[The  MINISTER  and  MARY  laugh  and  run  toward 
the    gate    to    see.     As    BROWN    approaches, 
followed  by  MRS.  BROWN,  MOLLY  ME  ALE  Y, 
MRS.  STEELE,  MRS.  JENNINGS,  and  DEACON 
STEELE,  MATTIE  comes  from  the  house  with 
BRIDGET,    and    the    schoolchildren    run    in 
through  the  gate,  all  out  of  breath. 
MR.  BROWN.   [At  the  gate.]     When  I  motion, 
throw  up  your  hat,  —  it's  the  signal  for  Uncle 
Bill  to  ring  the  bell.     [To  MINISTER,  with  sat 
isfaction.]      They're    all    a-comin'.     The  vote's 
unanimous  —  will  you  say  "  yes  "  ? 


LOVERS'   LANE  405 

MINISTER.    With  all  my  heart! 

BROWN.   [Excitedly  shaking   hands.]     Hooray! 

[He  throws  up  his  hat.  The  church  bell  rings. 
MATTIE,  SIMPLICITY  —  all  join  in,  cheering  and 
shaking  hands  with  each  other  all  around,  as 

THE    CURTAIN    FALLS 


NATHAN    HALE 

A   PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 


COPYRIGHT,  1899, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 

ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED. 


This  play  is  fully  protected  by  the  copyright  law,  all  requirements  of 
which  have  been  complied  with.  In  its  present  printed  form  it  is  dedi 
cated  to  the  reading  public  only,  and  no  performance  of  it,  cither  pro 
fessional  or  amateur,  may  be  given  without  the  written  permission  of 
the  owner  of  the  acting  rights,  who  may  be  addressed  in  care  of  the 
publishers,  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 


TO 

NAT    C.    GOODWIN 

AND 

MAXINE    ELLIOTT 

IN    GRATEFUL    REMEMBRANCE    OF 
AS    HAPPY  A   "  FIRST  NIGHT"   AS    EVER  WAS  ! 

C.  F.,  1899- 


NATHAN  HALE 


ACT  FIRST.    APRIL,  1775.     The  Union  Grammar  School- 
house  in  New  London,  Connecticut. 

ACT   SECOND.     SEPTEMBER,    1776.     At    Colonel  Knowl- 
torfs  house,  Harlem  Heights. 

ACT  THIRD.    SEPTEMBER,  1776.    THE  FIRST  SCENE.    The 

tavern  of  the  Widow  Chichester,  Long  Island. 
THE   SECOND    SCENE.     Otitside  the  tavern,   early  the 
next  morning. 

ACT   FOURTH.    THE  NEXT  NIGHT.    THE  FIRST  SCENE. 

The  tent  of  a  British  Officer. 

THE  SECOND  SCENE.  The  orchard  on  Colonel  Rut- 
ger's  farm  (now  Pike  and  Monroe  Streets,  New 
York}. 


CHARACTERS 


NATHAN  HALE.     Yale,  1773. 
GUY  FITZROY. 
LIEUT.  COL.  KNOWLTON. 
CAFF.  ADAMS. 
CUNNINGHAM. 
EBENEZER  LEBANON. 
TOM  ADAMS. 

WILLIAM  HULL.     Yale,  1773. 
THE  JEFFERSON  BOY. 
THE  TALBOT  BOY. 
JASPER. 
SENTINEL. 
THREE  SOLDIERS. 
ALICE  ADAMS. 
MISTRESS  KNOWLTON. 
ANGELICA  KNOWLTON. 
THE  WIDOW  CHICHESTER. 

SCHOOLBOYS,    SCHOOLGIRLS,    SOLDIERS,    TOWNSMEN,    AND 
TOWNSWOMEN. 


Originally  produced  in  Chicago,  111.,  on  January 
31,  1898.  On  January  2,  1899,  the  play  was 
brought  to  the  Knickerbocker  Theatre,  New  York. 

Nathan  Hale  (Yale,  1773)     ....      Mr.  N.  C.  Goodwin 

Guy  Fitzroy Mr.  William  Ingersol 

Lieut.  Colonel  Knowlton Mr.  Thomas  Oberle 

Capt.  Adams Mr.  Clarence  Handyside 

Cunningham Mr.  Neil  O'Brien 

Ebenezer  Lebanon Mr.  Louis  Payne 

Tom  Adams Mr.  Richard  Sterling 

William  Hull  (Yale,  1773) Mr.  M.  J.  Beane 

The  Jefferson  Boy Master  Ralph 

The  Talbot  Boy .     .    Mr.  Henry  Lewis 

Jasper Mr.  Clarence  Montaine 

Sentinel Mr.  Charles  Budd 

Schoolboys,  soldiers,  and  townsmen. 

Alice  Adams Miss  Maxine  Elliott 

Mistress  Knowlton Miss  Estelle  Mortimer 

Angelica  Knowlton Miss  Gertrude  Elliott 

The  Widow  Chichester Miss  Hattie  Russell 

Schoolgirls  and  townswomen. 


ACT  THE   FIRST 

The  Union  Grammar  Schoolhouse,  New  London, 
Connecticut,  in  1775.  It  is  a  simple  room  with 
a  door  on  the  left  side.  At  the  back  are  two 
smallish  windows,  through  which  are  seen  trees 
and  the  blue  sky;  between  them  is  a  big  black 
board.  At  the  right  of  the  room  is  a  small, 
slightly  raised  platform,  on  which  is  the  teacher's 
desk;  on  the  latter  are  papers,  quill  pens,  an  old 
ink-well,  pamphlets  and  books.  A  large  globe 
of  the  world  stands  beside  the  platform.  On  the 
wall  behind,  hangs  a  "birch"  In  front  of  the 
platform,  and  to  one  side,  is  a  three-legged  dunce's 
stool,  unoccupied  for  the  present.  Two  long,  low 
benches  for  the  classes  are  placed  beneath  the 
blackboard,  and  the  desks  and  benches  for  the 


417 


4i8  NATHAN  HALE 

scholars  are  placed  on  the  left,  facing  the  teacher's 
platform.  It  is  toward  noon  of  a  sunny  day,  and 
the  music  of  "Yankee  Doodle"  is  in  the  air. 
As  the  curtain  rises,  a  very  badly  drawn,  absurd 
picture  is  seen  on  the  blackboard,  representing 
the  boys  on  the  ice  pond  of  Boston  Common, 
with  their  thumbs  to  their  noses,  driving  away  the 
British  army!  ALICE  ADAMS  is  by  the  black 
board,  finishing  this  drawing.  Miss  ADAMS  is 
one  of  the  older  pupils,  somewhat  of  a  hoyden, 
already  a  little  of  a  woman,  lovely  to  look  upon, 
and  altogether  a  charming,  natural  girl,  full  of 
high  spirits.  All  the  scholars  are  half  out  of  their 
places,  and  they  are  laughing,  shouting,  talking 
and  gesticulating.  Above  the  din,  a  Boy's 
voice  is  heard. 

TALBOT    BOY.    [In   warning.]      Quick,    Alice! 
Teacher ! 


NATHAN  HALE  4Ig 

[There  is  a  wild  scramble  for  their  places,  and, 
just  as  LEBANON  enters,  sudden  silence  reigns. 
All  pretend  to  be  absorbed  in  their  books,  but 
keep  one  eye  on  LEBANON  and  the  blackboard, 
till  he,  following  their  glances,  discovers  the 
drawing. 

LEBANON.  [A  prim  and  youthful  assistant 
teacher,  with  a  pompous  manner,  intended  to  deceive 
his  pupils.}  Who  drew  that  picture?  [There  is 
silence.}  Who  drew  this  picture?  [No  one  re 
plies,  and  only  a  few  suppressed  giggles  are  heard.} 
I  will  keep  you  all  after  hours  till  the  boy  con 
fesses. 

ALICE.    [Interrupts  mischievously.}     Perhaps  it 
was  a  girl,  sir. 

[The  children  giggle  and  snicker. 

LEBANON.   No  interruptions !     I  will  keep  you 

all   in   till   the  boy   confesses.     [LEBANON   looks 


420  NATHAN  HALE 

about    expectantly;     nobody    speaks.]     I    am    in 

earnest. 

TALBOT  BOY.   It  wasn't  a  boy;   it  was  Alice 
Adams. 

[The  scholars  hiss  and  cry  "  Shame  !     Shame  ! " 
LEBANON.   Miss     Alice     Adams,     stand     up. 
[ALICE  rises.]     Is  that  true? 

ALICE.   [Biting  her  lips  to  keep  from  laughing.] 
Yes,  sir. 

LEBANON.  [To  ALICE.]  Sit  down.  '[She  does 
so,  very  leisurely.  —  To  the  Boy.]  Well,  Master 
Talbot,  you  deserve  to  be  punished  more  than 
Miss  Adams,  for  telling  on  a  fellow  pupil,  and  on  a 
girl,  too.  I  shall  report  you  both  to  Mr.  Hale. 
TOM  ADAMS.  [ALICE'S  younger  brother.]  Please 
tell  him  I  did  it,  sir,  instead  of  my  sister.  Mr. 
Hale's  always  punishing  Alice  ! 

ALICE.   No,   Mr.  Lebanon,  that  wouldn't  be 


NATHAN  HALE  421 

fair,  sir.     Besides,  I  want  Mr.  Hale  to  know  how 
well  I  can  draw. 

[Smiling  mischievously.  All  the  scholars  laugh. 
LEBANON.  [Raps  on  the  table.}  Silence !  That 
is  enough.  We  will  now  begin  the  session  in  the 
usual  manner  by  singing  "God  Save  the  King." 
[.4  knock  on  the  door.  All  the  scholars  are  excited 
and  curious.}  Master  Adams,  please  open  the 
door.  [Ton  goes  to  the  door  and  opens  it;  all  the 
children  looking  over  the  tops  of  their  books  curi 
ously.}  Everybody's  eyes  on  their  books ! 

[Each  one  holds  his  book  up  before  his  face  be 
tween  him  or  her  and  LEBANON. 
[MRS.  KNOWLTON  and  ANGELICA  enter.  MRS. 
KNOWLTON  is  a  handsome,  but  rather  voluble 
and  nervous  lady,  an  undetermined  trifle, 
past  middle  age.  Her  daughter,  ANGELICA, 
is  a  pretty,  quaint  little  creature,  with  a  senti- 


422  NATHAN  HALE 

mental  bearing ;  she  is  dressed  in  the  top  of  the 
fashion.  LEBANON  rises,  and  TOM  returns 
to  his  place. 

ALICE.  [Half  rising  in  surprise,  and  sitting 
again  immediately]  Well!  Angelica  Knowlton ! 
What  are  you  doing  here? 

LEBANON.   [Raps  on  his  desk  with  his  ruler.] 
Miss  Adams !         [ANGELICA  throws  ALICE  a  kiss. 
MRS.  KNOWLTON.   Is  this  Mr.  Hale? 
[ALICE  gives  a  little  explosion  of  laughter,  which 
is  at  once  followed  by  giggles  from  all  the  chil 
dren.     LEBANON  raps  again  sharply. 
LEBANON.   No,    madam,  I    am  Mr.  Lebanon, 
Mr.  Kale's  assistant. 

[ALICE  coughs  very  importantly. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.   I  wrote  Mr.  Hale  I  would 

visit  his  schoolhouse  to-day,  with  my  daughter, 

Angelica,  to  arrange  for  her  becoming  a  pupil. 


NATHAN  HALE  423 

[Bringing  ANGELICA  slightly  forward  with  one 
hand;  ANGELICA  is  embarrassed,  and  plays  ner 
vously  with  her  parasol]  Her  cousin,  Miss  Adams, 
is  already  a  scholar,  and  it  will  be  well  for  the  girls 
to  be  together.  Angelica,  dear,  stop  fiddling  with 
your  parasol;  you  make  my  nerves  quite  jumpy  ! 

LEBANON.  Mr.  Hale  will  be  here  in  one  mo 
ment,  madam.  Won't  you  be  seated,  meanwhile  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  Thank  you,  yes.  Be  care 
ful  of  your  dress,  when  you  sit,  Angelica  —  don't 
make  any  more  creases  than  are  absolutely 
necessary ! 

[They  sit  carefully  in  chairs  placed  for  them  by 
LEBANON  beside  the  desk. 

LEBANON.  Your  daughter  is  a  most  intelligent 
appearing  young  lady,  madam.  I  look  forward 
with  pleasure  to  instructing  her. 

MRS.    KNOWLTON.   Thank   you,    sir,    but   it's 


424  NATHAN  HALE 

only  fair  to  tell  you  her  appearances  are  deceitful. 
She  is  painfully  backward  in  everything  but 
spelling,  and  her  spelling's  a  disgrace  to  the 
family.  Angelica,  dear,  untie  your  bonnet 
strings;  you'll  get  a  double  chin  in  no  time  if 
you're  not  more  careful ! 

[ALICE  ADAMS  lifts  her  hand. 
LEBANON.   What  is  it,  Miss  Adams? 
ALICE.   Please,  may  I  go  and  kiss  my  aunt  and 
cousin  how  d'  you  do? 

[ The  scholars  giggle  softly. 
MRS.    KNOWLTON.   That    will   not  be   at   all 
necessary,  Mr.  Lebanon. 

LEBANON.   You  must  wait  until  recess,  Miss 
Adams.     Now,  attention,  please ! 

[The  scholars  all  shut  their  books,  which  they  have 
made  a  pretense  of  studying,  and  rise  without 
noise. 


NATHAN  HALE  425 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  [To  ANGELICA.]  Do  you 
like  this  teacher,  my  darling? 

ANGELICA.   I   think   he   is   beautiful,   mother. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON,  Well,  that  is  scarcely  the 
adjective  I  should  use ;  harmless  would  be  better, 
I  think.  Cross  your  feet,  my  dear;  it  looks  much 
more  ladylike. 

LEBANON.  [Rising.]  Ready!  [He  strikes  a 
tuning  fork  on  the  desk,  motions  three  times  with  his 
finger,  and  at  the  third  stroke  all  begin  to  sing  "God 
Save  the  King."  MRS.  KNOWLTON  and  ANGELICA 
rise  and  sing.  All  sing  except  TOM  ADAMS. 
After  the  first  line,  LEBANON  stops  them.]  Stop ! 
Thomas  Adams  is  not  singing.  Now,  everyone, 
mind,  and  Thomas,  if  you  don't  sing,  it  will  be 
five  raps  on  the  knuckles.  [All  except  TOM  sing 
two  lines;  LEBANON  again  stops  them.]  Thomas 
Adams,  come  forward !  [TOM  comes  slowly  for- 


426  NATHAN  HALE 

ward.]  I  am  ashamed  of  you,  being  disobedient 
in  this  manner,  —  before  your  esteemed  relative, 
too.  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ? 

TOM.   I  won't  sing  "God  Save  the  King." 

LEBANON.   And  why  not? 

TOM.  Because  I  hate  him  and  his  redcoats. 
Hip !  Hip  !  I  say,  for  the  Boston  Indians,  and 
Hooray  for  their  tea-party  ! 

[There  is  a  low,  suppressed  murmur  of  approval 
from  the  scholars,  and  a  loud  "  Oh  ! "  of  aston 
ishment  from  ANGELICA. 

LEBANON.  We'll  see  if  we  can't  make  you  sing. 
Hold  out  your  hand  ! 

[ToM  holds  out  his  hand,  and  LEBANON  takes 
up  his  ruler. 

ANGELICA.  Oh  —  [She  cries  out,  and  rises  in 
voluntarily. }  Oh,  please,  Mr.  Teacher  — 

LEBANON.  [After  a  moment's  hesitation.}  I 
cannot  be  deaf  to  the  voice  of  beauty. 


NATHAN  HALE  427 

[Bowing  to  ANGELICA,  he  lays  down  the  ruler. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  Child,  compose  your  nerves ; 
watch  your  mother ! 

TOM.  Oh,  you  can  whack  me  if  you  want. 
But  when  Mr.  Kale's  here,  he  don't  punish  me  for 
not  singing. 

LEBANON.   He  doesn't?     How's  that? 

TOM.   No,  sir.     He  said  he  didn't  blame  me! 

LEBANON.   Mr.  Hale  said  that  ? 

TOM.  Yes,  sir,  and  he  said  he  had  half  a  mind 
not  to  sing  it  himself  any  longer. 

LEBANON.  That's  treason !  We'll  see  about 
that  when  Mr.  Hale  arrives. 

[TOM  goes  back  to  his  seat. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  Does  Mr.  Hale  never  come 
to  the  schoolhous'e  till  toward  noon  ?  —  Angelica  ! 

[She  motions  aside  to  ANGELICA  to  pull  down  her 
skirls,  —  that  her  ankles  are  showing. 

LEBANON.   No,   madam.     Only,    there   was   a 


428  NATHAN  HALE 

rumor  to-day  that  there  had  been  bloodshed 
between  the  British  and  Americans  at  Concord, 
and  Mr.  Hale  is  at  the  Post  waiting  for  news. 

THE  TALBOT  BOY.  [With  his  eyes  turned  toward 
one  of  the  windows.}  Please,  sir,  here  comes  Mr. 
Hale  now. 

LEBANON.  Very  well.  You  will  all  please 
begin  again  and  sing,  whether  Master  Adams 
sings  or  not. 

TOM.    [Who  has  been  straining  to  see  out.}     Mr. 
Hale  is  out  of  breath,  and  he's  wondrous  excited  ! 
[LEBANON  raps  for  them  to  sing,  and  strikes  the 
tuning  fork.     The  children  —  all  except  TOM 
—  sing  through  three  lines,  when  HALE   en 
ters,  excited. 

HALE.    [Lifting  his  hand.}     Stop  that  singing! 

[The  children  stop. 
LEBANON.   Why  is  that,  Mr.  Hale? 


NATHAN  HALE  429 

HALE.  I  won't  have  my  school  sing  any  more 
anthems  to  that  tyrant ! 

LEBANON.  We  will  be  punished  for  treason. 
Will  you  kindly  notice  the  drawing  on  the  board  ? 

HALE.   Hello!   Hello!    [Laughing.]   What  is  it? 

THE  JEFFERSON  BOY.  It's  our  boys,  sir,  in 
Boston,  driving  the  redcoats  off  the  Common. 

LEBANON.  I  have  left  the  punishment  for  you 
to  fix  on,  sir. 

HALE.  Punishment !  Punishment !  Not  a  bit 
of  it !  Give  the  boy  who  did  it  a  prize  !  Listen 
to  me,  boys  and  girls  —  how  many  of  you  are 
Whigs?  Say  "Aye."  [All  but  the  TALBOT  BOY 
raise  their  right  hands  and  shout  "Aye  ! "]  Who's 
a  Tory? 

TALBOT  BOY.   Aye ! 

[Raising  his  right  hand,  but  he  takes  it  down 
quickly  as  all  the  others  hiss  him. 


430  NATHAN  HALE 

HALE.  I  make  all  the  boys  here  "Sons  of 
Liberty."  1  And  all  the  girls,  too  !  Listen  to  me, 
boys  and  girls!  Two  days  ago,  eight  hundred 
Britishers  left  Boston  for  Concord  to  capture 
our  military  stores  there  !  - 

ALL  THE  SCHOLARS.   Boo ! 

[Groans. 

HALE.  But  the  Yankees  were  too  smart  for 
them !  I  want  you  to  give  three  cheers  for  Paul 
Revere.  —  Ready ! 

ALL.   Hip,  hip,  hip,  hooray ! 

TOM.    [Excitedly.]     What  did  he  do,  sir? 

HALE.  He  rode  like  mad  to  Lexington,  and 
warned  the  people  there,  and  all  the  farmers  on 
the  way,  and  other  men  rode  in  other  directions, 
and  when  the  Britishers  came  back  to  Lexington 
from  Concord  —  [Stops  for  breath. 

1 A  famous  club  of  the  day. 


NATHAN  HALE  43i 

ALL  THE  SCHOOL.    [Excited,  and  rising  in  dis 
order.]     Yes  —  yes  — 

HALE.  [Continues  in  crescendo.]  They  found 
Minute  Men  by  every  fence,  inside  each  house, 
behind  every  rock  and  tree  !-—  and  the  Americans 
chased  those  Regulars  clean  back  to  Boston,  - 
at  least  what  was  left  of  them,  for  the  British 
lost  two  hundred  and  seventy-three  men,  and  we 
only  eighty-eight ! 

[The  whole  school   breaks   loose  in   shouting — • 
whistles,  catcalls,  cries,  applause,  jumping  up 
on  their  chairs  and  desks,  etc.     LEBANON  tries 
in  vain  to  quell  the   tumult.    Finally  HALE 
comes  to  his  rescue  and  silences  the  scholars; 
he  turns  to  LEBANON  questioningly . 
LEBANON.    Excuse   me,    Mr.    Hale,    there   are 
visitors  present;    Mrs.  Knowlton,  the  lady  who 
wrote  you  yesterday. 


432  NATHAN  HALE 

HALE.   Madam.    •  [Bows. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  [Who  has  risen,  curtseys.] 
Sir!  Angelica,  rise  and  curtsey.  [To  HALE.] 
My  daughter,  of  whom  I  wrote  you,  sir.  [HALE 
bows  and  ANGELICA  curtseys.]  Angelica  —  what 
a  curtsey !  Who'd  ever  think  you'd  been  taught 
all  the  fashionable  attainments  at  a  guinea  a 
quarter  ? 

HALE.  I'm  afraid  you  find  us  rather  upside 
down  this  morning,  madam.  But  I  assure  you 
it's  nothing  compared  to  what's  going  on  in 
Boston,  where  the  public  schools  were  closed 
several  days  last  week. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  So  I  heard,  sir,  which  was 
one  of  my  reasons  for  selecting  New  London. 
Sit  down,  Angelica.  [ANGELICA  sits. 

HALE.  Excuse  me  one  moment,  madam.  [To 
LEBANON.]  Take  Miss  — 


NATHAN  HALE  433 

ANGELICA.   Angelica,  sir. 

HALE.  Miss  Angelica  to  one  side,  and  inquire 
about  her  studies. 

LEBANON.   This  way,   Miss. 

[They  go  beside  the  window  up  stage. 

HALE.  Miss  Alice  Adams,  please  come  for 
ward.  [ALICE  rises  and  comes  to  HALE  in  front 
of  desk ;  she  assumes  an  air  of  innocence,  but  with 
a  conscious  twinkle  in  her  eye  when  she  looks  at 
HALE.]  It  will  be  a  great  pleasure  for  you,  I  am 
sure,  to  have  your  cousin  with  you. 

ALICE.  [Sweetly  and  conventionally .[  Yes,  Mr. 
Hale. 

[She  looks  into  his  face,  and  deliberately  winks 
mischievously  at  him,   biting  back  a  smile. 

HALE.  [Coming  nearer  her,  whispers.}  Can 
I  keep  you  in  at  recess?  Have  you  done  some 
thing  I  may  punish  you  for  ? 


434  NATHAN  HALE 

ALICE.   Yes,  sir.     I  drew  the  picture. 

HALE.    [Delighted.]     Good! 

ALICE.  But  I'm  afraid  you've  spoiled  it  all 
by  not  disapproving. 

HALE.  Nat  a  bit  of  it !  As  you've  done  it,  I'll 
disapprove  mightily  !  [Smiles  lovingly  at  her,  and 
adds,  as  he  goes  back  to  his  desk  :]  Very  well  - 
that  is  all,  Miss  Adams.  I  will  give  you  an 
opportunity  to  talk  with  your  aunt  and  cousin 
during  recess. 

ALICE.  [About  to  go,  turns  back  disappointedly, 
and  speaks  to  him  aside.}  What  —  aren't  you 
going  to  punish  me  ? 

HALE.  [Aside  to  her.}  Certainly,  that  is  only 
to  blind  the  others.  You  know  I'm  obliged  to 
change  my  mind  rather  suddenly  about  this 
picture.  [ALICE  goes  back  to  her  seat.]  Mr. 
Lebanon ! 


NATHAN  HALE  435 

[LEBANON  joins  HALE   and  they  talk  together 

aside. 

ANGELICA.  [Joining  her  mother.}  Oh,  mother, 
he  is  really  beautiful!  He  says  I  know  a  great 
deal. 

[She  stands  by  her  mother,  with  one  arm  about 

MRS.  KNOWLTON. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  Humph!  He  must  be  a 
fool.  One  of  your  mitts  is  off,  child !  Why  is 
that? 

ANGELICA.  [Drawing  her  hand  away.}  He 
wanted  to  kiss  my  hand. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  Put  on  your  mitt,  this 
minute  —  and  remember  this,  my  dear :  you  are 
not  here  to  learn  coquetry,  but  arithmetic,— 
the  French  language  if  you  like,  but  not  French 
manners  ! 
HALE.  In  honor  of  the  day,  we  will  omit  the 


430  NATHAN  HALE 

first  recitation,   and  recess  will  begin  at  once. 
[.4  general  movement,  and  suppressed  murmurs  of 
pleasure  from   all   the   scholars.}     One   moment, 
however  ;  on  second  thoughts,  I  have  decided  this 
picture  —  ahem  —  is,    after   all,    very   reprehen 
sible.     The  perpetrator  must  suffer.     Who  is  the 
culprit  —  she  —  he  —  [correcting  himself  quickly] 
must  be  punished. 

TOM.    [Before    anyone    else    can    speak,    rises.] 
I  did  it,  sir. 

ALICE.    [Rising.]     No,  sir,  it  was  I ! 
HALE.    Miss   Adams,    I    am    surprised!     And 
deeply  as  it  pains  me,  I  must  keep  you  in  during 
recess. 

TOM.   It's  a  shame!     [Turns  to  school.]    He's 

always  doing  it ! 

HALE.   Silence,  Master  Adams  1    Ten  minutes' 

recess. 


NATHAN  HALE  437 

[All  the  scholars  rise,  get  their  hats  and  caps  from 
pegs  on  the  wall,  and  go  out  talking  and  laugh 
ing  gaily,  except  TOM,  who  goes  out  slowly, 
angry;   and  ALICE,  who  remains  behind. 
MRS.  KNOWLTON.   [To  ANGELICA,  as  the  scholars 
are  leaving.}     I  think  he  is  rather  strict  with  your 
cousin.     You'll  have  to  mind  your  P's  and  Q's, 
my  dear. 

ANGELICA.  I  don't  like  him  one-half  as  much 
as  Mr.  Lebanon. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  [Snapping  her  fingers  on 
ANGELICA'S  shoulder.}  Tut,  my  bird !  Enough 
of  that  person. 

HALE.    [Rising  and  turning  to  MRS.  KNOWL 
TON.]     Madam,  if  you  will  allow  Mr.  Lebanon,  he 
will  escort  you  and  your  daughter  about  the  play 
grounds. 
MRS.    KNOWLTON.       [Rising.}    Thank     you! 


438  NATHAN  HALE 

Can  my  daughter  remain  to-day,  sir  ?  Angelica, 
straighten  your  fichu  strings.  You  do  give  me 
the  fidgets! 

HALE.     Certainly,  madam.     Mr.  Lebanon  — 
[LEBANON  offers  his  arm  to  MRS.  KNOWLTON, 

who  takes  it  after  a  curtsey  to  MR.  HALE. 
MRS.  KNOWLTON.   Come,  Angelica,  and  don't 
drop  your  mantilla ! 

[ANGELICA,  after  a  curtsey,  takes  MRS.  KNOWL- 
TON'S  hand,  and  they  go  out  —  all  three.  HALE 
and  ALICE  watch  them  closely  till  they  are  off 
and  the  door  closes  behind  them;  then  both  give 
a  sigh  of  relief,  and  smile,  —  ALICE  rising  and 
HALE  going  to  her. 
HALE.  [Very  happy.]  Well? 

[Takes  her  two  hands  in  his. 
ALICE.   [Also  -very  happy.]    Well? 
[HALE  sits  on  desk  before  her,  ALICE  back   in 
her  seat. 


NATHAN  HALE  439 

HALE.  I'm  afraid  your  brother  is  becoming 
unruly.  I'll  not  be  able  to  keep  you  in  at  recess 
much  longer.  You  see,  you're  not  half  bad 
enough.  [Smiling.]  I  ought  not  to  punish  you, 
and  all  the  scholars  will  soon  be  perceiving  that ! 

ALICE.  I  try  my  best  to  think  of  something 
really  bad  to  do,  but  my  very  wickedest  things 
are  always  failures,  and  turn  out  so  namby- 
pamby  and  half-way  good,  —  I'm  ashamed. 

HALE.    [Impulsively.]     You  darling  ! 

ALICE.  [Laughing;  delighted,  but  drawing  back 
in  mock  fear,  and  holding  her  arithmetic  open 
between  them.]  Mr.  Hale  ! 

HALE.  [Seriously,  passionately,  taking  the  book 
from  her  unconsciously,  and  throwing  it  aside.] 
Alice,  did  a  young  man  ever  tell  you  that  he 
loved  you? 

ALICE.  Yes,  sir,  —  [taking  up  her  geography] 
several  have  !  [Looking  down  into  the  book. 


440  NATHAN  HALE 

HALE.  What! 

ALICE.  [Looks  up  at  him  coyly,  then  down  again 
into  her  book.}  And  one  of  them  three  times. 

HALE.  [Closing  the  book  in  her  hands,  and  hold 
ing  it  dosed  so  she  will  look  at  him.}  I'll  keep  you 
in,  three  recesses  in  succession  —  one  for  each 
time  ! 

ALICE.  [Looks  straight  into  his  eyes.}  Then  I 
wish  he'd  asked  me  twice  as  often  ! 

HALE.   Alice! 

ALICE.  It  was  my  cousin  Fitzroy !  He  says 
he  will  persist  till  he  wins,  and  mother  says  he  will. 

HALE.  And  you  —  do  you  like  this  cousin 
Fitzroy  ? 

ALICE.  If  I  say  I  like  him,  will  you  keep  me 
in  another  recess  ? 

HALE.    [Moodily.]     I'll  keep  you  in  a  dozen. 

ALICE.   Then  I  love  him ! 


NATHAN  HALE  441 

HALE.  \Forgetting  everything  but  her  words,  and 
leaving  her}  Alice  —  Alice  —  go,  join  the  others. 
I'll  never  keep  you  in  again  ! 

ALICE.  No  —  no  —  you  must/  [She  throws 
away  the  geography.}  You  promised,  if  I  would  say 
I  liked  my  cousin  Fitzroy,  you'd  keep  me  in  a 
dozen  recesses.  [HALE  goes  back  to  her.}  It  isn't 
treating  me  fair  ! 

HALE.  Do  you  know  what  I  wish?  I  wish 
life  were  one  long  recess,  and  I  could  keep  you 
in  with  me  forever  ! 

ALICE.    [Shyly    looking    down,    speaks    softly, 
naively}     Well  —  why  —  don't  —  you  —  sir  ? 
HALE.    [Eagerly,  delighted}     May  I? 
ALICE.   As    if    you    didn't    know    you    could. 
Only,  there  is  one  thing  — 

HALE.    [Tenderly}     What  is  it? 

ALICE.    When  we're  married,  I  think  it's  only 


442  NATHAN  HALE 

fair  that  /  should  turn  the  tables,  and  sometimes 

keep  you  in  ! 

HALE.   Agreed  !     I'll  tell  you  what  - 

ALICE.    {Interrupting.}     Oh,  1  have  an  idea  ! 

HALE.  So  have  I.  ...  I  wonder  if  they're 
not  the  same? 

ALICE.  I'll  try  again  to  do  something  really 
naughty ! 

HALE.   And  I  will  keep  you  after  school. 

ALICE.  [Rises.]  My  idea  —  and  then  you  will 
walk  home  with  me  — 

HALE.  My  idea,  too!  And  I  will  ask  your 
father  to-day ! 

ALICE.  [With  a  half-mocking  curtsey.]  And  if 
he  won't  give  me  to  you,  you  will  kindly  take  me 
all  the  same,  sir.  [The  school  bell  rings  outside. 

HALE.  Here  come  the  scholars!  You  love 
me,  Alice? 


NATHAN  HALE  443 

ALICE.   Yes. 

HALE.   Half  as  much  as  I  love  you? 
ALICE.   No,  twice  as  much  ! 
HALE.    That  couldn't  be.     My  love  for  you  is 
full  of  all  the  flowers  that  ever  bloomed !  of  all 
the  songs  the  birds  have  'ever  sung !  of  all  the 
kisses  the  stars  have  given  the  sky  since  night 
was  made ! 

[He   kisses   her. 

[The  door  opens,  and  the  scholars  enter.     HALE 
goes  quickly  to  his  desk.     ALICE   buries  her 
face   in   a   book.     ANGELICA   and   LEBANON 
enter  together,  after  the  scholars. 
LEBANON.   Mr.  Hale,  I  think  I  had  best  point 
out  to  Miss  Knowlton  what  her  lessons  will  be, 
—  and  shall  she  sit  next  to  Miss  Adams,  sir  ? 

HALE.   Yes.     And  the  first  class  in  grammar 
will  now  come  forward. 


444  NATHAN  HALE 

[Seven    scholars    come  forward    and   take   their 
places  on  the  forms  in  front  of  HALE,  and  while 
they    are    doing  so,  LEBANON   has    arranged 
ANGELICA  at  a  desk  in  front  of  ALICE. 
LEBANON.   This    will    be    your    desk,    Miss 
Angelica. 

ANGELICA.  Thank  you,  sir.  Can  I  see  you 
from  here  ? 

LEBANON.  Yes,  I  always  occupy  Mr.  Hale's 
chair.  But  you  mustn't  look  at  me  all  the  time, 
young  lady. 

ANGELICA.   I'll  try  not  to,  sir. 
[She  sighs.     HALE  begins  to  hear  his  class.     LEB 
ANON  bends  over  ANGELICA,  opening  several 
books,   marking  places  in  them  for  her,  etc. 
He  is  showing  her  where  her  lessons  are  to  be. 
HALE.   Master  Tom  Adams. 
TOM.    [Rising.]    Yes,  sir. 


NATHAN  HALE  445 

HALE.  The  positive,  comparative,  and  super 
lative  of  good? 

TOM.   Good,  better,  best. 

HALE.  Yes.  I  wish  you'd  try  and  act  on  one 
or  two  of  those  in  school.  [Ton  sits,  grinning] 
Master  Talbot !  [TALBOT  BOY  rises.]  Positive, 
comparative,  and  superlative  of  sick  ? 

TALBOT  BOY.     [Who  lisps]     Thick—? 

HALE.  Well?  [Pause]  Why,  any  boy  half  as 
old  as  you  could  answer  that.  There's  our  little 
visitor,  Master  Jefferson  there,  —  I'll  wager  he 
knows  it.  Master  Jefferson!  [The  JEFFERSON 
BOY  conies  forward]  Positive,  comparative,  and 
superlative  of  sick? 

THE  JEFFERSON  BOY.  Sick  —  [Pause]  Worse 
—  [Longer  pause]  Dead ! 

[The    school   laughs. 

HALE.    [Laughing]     That's  a  good  answer  for 


446  NATHAN  HALE 

the  son  of  a  doctor  to  make.  [He  nods  to  the  boy 
to  sit,  and  he  does  so.]  What  is  it  ?  [He  looks  about 
and  sees  ANGELICA  and  LEBANON  engrossed  in 
each  other  behind  a  grammar  book.]  Miss  Angelica 
—  [ANGELICA  and  LEBANON  start.}  Can  you 
give  it  to  us? 

ANGELICA.    [Timidly,     rising]    I    love  —  you 
love  —  he  or  she  loves. 

[ The  school  giggles. 

HALE.    That   was   hardly   my   question,   Miss 
Angelica.     [She  sits,  embarrassed.     A  slight  com 
motion  is  heard  outside.}     What  I  asked  was  — 
[ The  door  bursts  open  and  FITZROY  enters.     He  is 
a  handsome  young  fellow  of  about  twenty-five, 
in   the  uniform   of  a  British   officer;    he  is 
excited,  and  somewhat  loud  and  noisy. 
FITZROY.   Is  this  the  Union  Grammar  School? 
HALE.    [Rising]    Yes! 


NATHAN  HALE  447 

FITZROY.  I  have  been  sent  here  by  General 
Gage,  who  is  in  Boston,  to  hold  a  meeting  of  your 
townspeople  who  are  loyal  to  King  George. 

HALE.   What  for? 

FITZROY.  Boston  is  in  a  state  of  siege.  The 
Rebels  who  chased  the  Regulars  through  Lexington 
have  been  joined  by  other  colonists  around,  and 
have  cut  the  town  completely  off  from  all  com 
munication,  except  by  sea.  This  state  of  affairs 
is  nothing  else  than  war,  and  Great  Britain  calls 
upon  her  loyal  children ! 

HALE.   And  my  schoolhouse? 

FITZROY.  Is  where  the  meeting  is  to  be  held, 
at  once. 

HALE.  [Coming  down  from  platform.]  A  Tory 
meeting!  Here!  Have  you  been  properly  em 
powered  ? 

FITZROY.    [Flourishing  a  paper.]    Yes,  here  is 


448  NATHAN  HALE 

my  permit.     A   crier  is  going  about   the  town 

now,  calling  the  men  to  meet  within  the  hour. 

HALE.  A  Tory  meeting  here  !  [He  turns  to  the 
school]  Then  we'll  get  out,  eh,  boys? 

ALL  THE  SCHOOL.   Yes  —  yes ! 

FITZROY.    What  —  are    you    all    rebels    here? 
[Looking  over  the  school. 

TOM.   No!     We're  "Sons  of  Liberty!" 

FITZROY.  Damn  you !  [HALE  interrupts  him 
with  a  gesture,  motioning  to  the  girls  on  their  side 
of  the  room.  FITZROY  takes  ojf  his  bearskin  hat 
and  bows  gracefully.}  I'll  warrant  the  young 
ladies  favor  the  British  !  What,  Alice,  —  you 
here?  You  will  allow  me,  sir? 

[HALE   bows   assent,   but  not  too   pleased,   and 
FITZROY  goes  to  ALICE. 

HALE.  What  do  you  say  now,  Mr.  Lebanon? 
Are  you  going  to  stay  for  this  meeting  ? 


NATHAN  HALE  449 

LEBANON.  No,  siree !  I  am  going  out  to  buy 
a  gun. 

ANGELICA.  [Gives  an  unconscious  cry,  and  Jor get 
ting  herself  and  her  surroundings,  rises  frightened, 
crying:}  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Lebanon,  oh,  no,  no,  no! 

HALE.  Don't  be  alarmed,  Miss  Knowlton ! 
I  doubt  if  he  ever  uses  it. 

ANGELICA.  Make  him  promise  me,  sir,  he'll 
never  carry  it  loaded ! 

HALE.  [After  a  jealous  look  at  ALICE  and 
FITZROY,  who  are  talking  together  at  one  side, 
turns  to  the  school.}  Boys !  I  have  a  proposition 
to  make.  What  do  you  say  to  joining  a  small 
volunteer  company,  with  me  at  your  head? 
Every  boy  over  fifteen,  eligible. 
BOYS.  Yes  — yes! 

THE  JEFFERSON  BOY.   Please,  Mr.  Hale,  make 
it  boys  over  'leven. 


4So  NATHAN  HALE 

HALE.  We'll  make  you  drummer-boy,  Master 
Jefferson.  Come  —  all  boys  who  want  to  join, 
sign  this  paper  ! 

[They  all  crowd  around  the  desk  and  sign,  the 
constant  murmur  of  their  voices  being  heard 
through    the  following    scene.     FITZROY    and 
ALICE     come    down    stage    together,    ALICE 
leading,  FITZROY  following. 
ALICE.   Please  do  not  ask  me  that  again.     I 
tell  you,  you  can  never  persuade  me.     Nor  can 
my  mother  influence  me  the  least  in  this.     Twenty 
mothers  couldn't  make  my  heart  beat  for  you,  if 
you  can't  make  it  beat  yourself.     And  even  if  I 
did  love  you  —  [she  adds  quickly]  which  I  don't  - 
I'd  let  my  heart  break  before  I'd  marry  a  man 
who  is  willing  to  take  up  arms  against  his  own 
country ! 

FITZROY.    That's  a  girl's  reasoning.     England 


NATHAN  HALE  45I 

is  too  great  a  power  to  be  defeated  by  an  upstart 
little  government  like  the  American,  and  when  she 
wins,  those  of  us  who  have  stood  by  her  will  be 
rewarded !     These  poor  rebel  fools  will  have  their 
every  penny  confiscated,  while  I  have  a  grant  of 
land,  promotion  in  the  army  —  who  knows,  per 
haps  a  title.     Don't  refuse  me  again  too  quickly! 
ALICE.    Too    quickly!     There    are    no    words 
short  enough  for  me  to  use.     You  may  sell  your 
country  for  money  and  power,  if  you  like,  but 
you  can't  buy  me  with  it,  also.     And  that's  the 
last  word  I'll  ever  say  to  you,  Guy  Fitzroy  ! 

FITZROY.  Huh!  You'll  change  your  mind 
some  day !  I  mean  to  have  you,  —  do  you  hear 
me?  If  I  can't  beg  or  buy  you,  then  I'll  steal. 
You  know  what  I'm  like  when  I'm  in  my  cups ! 
Some  day,  when  I've  made  up  my  mind  I  can't 
wait  any  longer,  I'll  drink  myself  mad  for  you, 


452  NATHAN  HALE 

and  then  beware  of  me  !     You  remember  that 
evening,  two   months  ago,  after  your   mother's 
punch,  when  I  dragged  you  behind  the  window 
curtain  and  kissed  you  against  your  will  on  your 
arms  and  neck  and  lips  till  you  called  for  help? 
Remember  that,  and  don't  think  you  can  refuse 
me    carelessly,    and    have    it    done    with.     No, 
watch  for  me  !     [She  stands,  facing  him  haughtily, 
showing  her  disgust  for  him.     There  is  a  moment's 
pause,  in  which  he  gazes  passionately  and  deter 
minedly  at  her.     FITZROY,  by  a  gesture  and  a  toss 
of  his  head,  as  much  as  to  say,  "We'll  see,  I  am 
sure  to  win,"  breaks  the  pause  and  the  feeling  of  the 
scene,  looking  at  his  watch  and  speaking  as  boys  go 
back  in  single  file  to  their  places,  having  signed  the 
volunteer  roll-call.]     It  only  lacks  fifteen  minutes 
of  noon  ;  I  must  be  off.     I  will  be  back,  Mr.  Hale, 
for  the  meeting  at  twelve.     How  many  of  you 


NATHAN  HALE  453 

boys  wish  to  stay  and  rally  round  King  George's 
flag?  [He  waits  for  some  sign  from  the  boys. 
There  is  only  silence.]  You  little  fools !  [He 
turns  to  HALE.]  Is  this  your  teaching? 

HALE.  Not  altogether,  though  I've  done  my 
best,  sir.  There  is  a  gentleman  in  the  Virginia 
Assembly  who  said  "Caesar"  —  [He  looks  at  boys 
with  a  nod  of  invitation  to  join  him,  and  they  all 
finish  with  him  heartily.]  "  Caesar  had  his  Brutus, 
Charles  the  First  his  Cromwell,  and  George 
III  "  [TOM  throws  up  his  cap. 

FITZROY.    [Loudly.]  ,  Treason  —  this  is  treason  ! 

HALE.  "George  III — ^may  profit  by  their 
example."  That's  what  Patrick  Henry  said  ! 

FITZROY.  Fortunate  for  him  he  went  no 
farther ! 

HALE.  Oh,  he  is  still  moving!  I  think  he  will 
go  far  enough  before  he  stops. 


454  NATHAN  HALE 

FITZROY.  He  may  go  up !  [With  a  motion 
across  the  throat,  of  hanging.]  See  that  the  house 
is  ready  for  us.  [HALE  nods.  FITZROY  looks 
hard  at  ALICE,  then  says:]  Good  day  to  you  all! 

[Goes  out. 

HALE.  The  school  will  assemble  to-morrow,  as 
usual.  Of  course,  if  there's  really  any  fighting 
to  be  done,  I  shall  go,  and  the  boys  who  are  too 
young  to  go  with  me  — 

THE  JEFFERSON  BOY.   None  of  us  are,  sir. 

ALL  THE  BOYS.   None  of  us  !  none  of  us  ! 

HALE.  Ah,  I'm  proud  of  you !  Proud  of  you 
all !  But  your  parents  have  something  to  say ; 
and  for  the  girls  and  the  younger  boys,  we  must 
find  another  teacher. 

LEBANON.  I  will  stay,  Mr.  Hale.  I  feel  it's  my 
duty. 

HALE.   [Amused.]    Ahem!    Very    well  —  that 


NATHAN  HALE  455 

is  settled,  then.  For  to-day  the  school  is  now 
dismissed,  except  Miss  Alice  Adams,  who  must 
remain  behind. 

TOM.  [Rises,  angrily.]  What  for?  She  hasn't 
done  anything  —  she  hasn't  had  a  chance  to  do 
anything.  You  kept  her  in  all  recess,  and  you 
shan't  keep  her  in  again ! 

[ALICE  and  HALE  are  secretly  amused.  The 
school  looks  on,  surprised  and  excited. 

HALE.  Look  here,  Master  Adams,  what  right 
have  you  to  say  as  to  what  shall  or  shall  not  be 
done  in  this  school? 

TOM.  She's  my  sister,  and  you're  always 
punishing  her,  and  I  won't  have  it ! 

HALE.    [Amused.]     Oh,  won't  you? 

TOM.  No,  sir,  I  won't !  She  never  does  any 
thing  worth  being  punished  for.  You've  got  a 
grudge  against  her.  All  the  boys  have  seen  it ! 


456  NATHAN  HALE 

Haven't    you,    boys  ?     Go    on,    speak    out,  — • 

haven't  you  seen  it? 

[Turning  to  the  boys,  who  murmur,  rather 
timidly,  "Yes." 

HALE.  Really?  May  I  ask  who  is  master 
here?  School  is  dismissed,  except  Miss  Alice 
Adams,  —  she  remains  behind  ! 

TOM.  [Excited,  coming  out  from  his  seat  to  in 
front  of  the  benches, [  I  say  she  shan't ! 

HALE.  And  I  say  it's  none  of  your  business, 
sir,  and  she  shall ! 

TOM.  [Ojf  his  head  with  excitement.}  She  shan't ! 
[Beginning  to  take  o/  his  coat.]  Will  you  fight  it 
out  with  me  ?  Come  on  —  a  fair  fight ! 

ALICE.    Tom! 

[The  school  rise  and  go  out  slowly  with  LEBANON, 
but  casting  curious  looks  behind  them  as  they  go. 
ALICE,  HALE  and  TOM  are  left  behind. 


NATHAN  HALE  457 

HALE.  I  will  leave  it  with  Miss  Adams  herself 
whether  she  does  as  I  say,  or  not. 

TOM.    Come  on,  Alice,  come  on  with  me  ! 

ALICE.   No,  I  prefer  to  stay. 

TOM.  Bah  —  just  like  a  girl !  Very  well, 
then  7  shall  stay,  too.  [HALE  and  ALICE  look 
surprised  and  disappointed,  yet  secretly  amused.] 
Every  time  you  punish  my  sister,  you'll  have  to 
punish  me,  now.  If  she  stays  behind,  I  stay,  too, 
to  keep  her  company. 

[Behind  TOM'S  back,  ALICE  and  HALE  ex 
change  amused  and  puzzled  looks  and  affec 
tionate  signals.  Finally  HALE  has  an  idea. 

HALE.  Tom,  come  here,  —  go  to  the  black 
board.  [ToM  goes  sullenly  to  the  board.]  I  think 
we'll  have  a  little  Latin  out  of  you.  Write  the 
present  tense  of  the  Latin  word  "to  love."  [ToM 
sneers,  but  with  a  piece  of  chalk  writes : 


45 8  NATHAN   HALE 

"Amo,  /  love, 
Amas,  Thou  lovest, 
Amat,  He  —  " 

is  interrupted.]     Never  mind  the  "he  or  she"; 
just  make  it  "she." 

[TOM  puts  an"  s"  in  front  of  the  "he,"  making  it 
"she"  and  adds  "loves."  TOM  looks  sullen 
and  rather  foolish,  not  understanding.  HALE 
goes  to  board  and  taking  a  piece  of  chalk  adds, 
after  first  line,  "Alice,"  and  also  to  end  of 
second  line,  "Alice;"  he  adds  to  third  line 
"me,"  and  signs  it  "Nathan  Hale."  The 
blackboard  then  reads :  - 

"Amo,  /  love  ALICE, 
Amas,  Thou  lovest  ALICE, 
Amat,  She  loves  — •  me. 

NATHAN  HALE." 
TOM.    [Embarrassed,    surprised,    not    altogether 


NATHAN  HALE  459 

pleased}     What —  I   don't   believe   it  —  it  isn't 
true! 

ALICE.    [Rising  and  coming  forward.]     Yes,  it 
is,  Tom. 

TOM.  Well,  I'll  be  blowed ! - 
[He  stops  short,  crimson  in  the  face,  and  rushes 
from  the  room.  HALE  goes  toward  ALICE  with 
his  arms  outstretched  to  embrace  her;  ALICE 
goes  into  his  arms  —  a  long  embrace  and 
kiss.  A  loud  tattoo  on  a  drum  outside  startles 
them. 

HALE.   The  Tory  meeting ! 
ALICE.   Fitzroy  will  be  back.     I  don't  want  to 
see  him ! 

HALE.   Quick  —  we'll    go    by    the    window ! 

[Putting  a  chair  under  the  window,   he  jumps 

on  to  chair  and  out;  then  leans  in  the  window 

and  holds  out  his  hands  to  ALICE,  who  is  on  the 


460  NATHAN  HALE 

chair.]     And    if   to-morrow   another    drum 

makes  me  a  soldier  —  ? 

ALICE.   It  will  make  me  a  soldier's  sweetheart ! 
HALE.    Come  ! 
[She  gets  out  of  the  window  with  his  help,  and, 

with  loud  drum  tattoo  and  bugle  call,  the  stage 

is  left  empty,  as 

THE    CURTAIN   FALLS 


ACT  THE   SECOND 

September,  1776.  At  COLONEL  KNOWLTON'S 
house  on  Harlem  Heights.  A  large,  general 
room,  with  white  walls  and  columns.  The 
furniture  of  the  room  is  heavy  mahogany,  up 
holstered  in  crimson  brocade,  this  latter  material 
also  hanging  in  curtains  at  the  inndows.  Life- 
sized  portraits,  by  Copley  and  Stuart,  of  Colonel 
and  Mrs.  Knowlton  at  the  time  of  their  mar 
riage,  hang  on  each  side  of  the  room.  A  broad 
window  at  back  shows  the  brick  wall  of  the  garden, 
and  through  a  tall,  ornamental,  iron  gate  is  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  river.  MRS.  KNOWLTON  is 
nervously  looking  out  of  the  window.  She  comes 
from  the  window,  pulls  the  bell-rope,  and  returns 
461 


462  NATHAN  HALE 

agitatedly    to    window.     A    happy    old    colored 

servant,  in  a  light  blue  and  silver  livery,  enters 

in  answer. 

JASPER.   Yaas,  m'm? 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  Oh,  Jasper,  how  long  since 
Miss  Angelica  went  out  ? 

JASPER.   I  dunno,  m'm. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  It  isn't  safe  for  her  to  go  out 
alone,  Jasper. 

JASPER.   No,  m'm. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  [Looking  again  out  of  win- 
dow.}  And  I've  expressly  forbidden  her. 

JASPER.   Yaas,  m'm. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  [Turning  and  coming  back 
excitedly  on  her  toes.}  And  you  don't  know? 

JASPER.   Dunno  nothing,  m'm. 

MRS.    KNOWLTON.   And   the   other   servants? 

JASPER.   None  of  the  servants   in  this   hyah 


NATHAN  HALE  463 

house,  m'm,  dunno  nothing  whatsomever  what 
ole  Jasper  dunno. 

[COLONEL  KNOWLTON  enters  hurriedly.  He  is 
a  tall,  striking-looking  man,  aquiline  features, 
and  iron-gray  hair.  He  is  strong  in  character, 
brave  in  spirit,  and  affectionate  in  heart.  He 
is  dressed  in  the  Hue  and  buff  uniform  of  a 
Revolutionary  Colonel. 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  [Speaks  as  he  enters.} 
Ah,  Martha,  that's  good  I've  found  you ! 

JASPER.  [Eagerly.]  Beg  pardon,  sah,  but  am 
thar  any  news,  Colonel? 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  Yes,  Jasper.  You  ser 
vants  must  turn  all  our  rooms  into  bed-chambers 
by  to-night. 

[Sits  heavily  on  the  sofa  as  if  he  were  tired. 
MRS.  KNOWLTON.   What ! 
[Going  to  him  and  sitting  beside  him  on  the  sofa. 


464  NATHAN  HALE 

JASPER  leaves  the  room,  taking  the  COLONEL'S 
sword  and  hat. 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  The  army  has  aban 
doned  the  city,  under  Washington's  orders, 
to  take  a  position  here,  on  Harlem  Heights. 
Washington  is  making  his  own  headquarters  at 
the  house  of  Robert  Murray,  on  Murray  Hill, 
and  we  must  take  in  all  the  staff  officers  we  can. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  [Brushing  the  dust  off  his 
shoulders,  and  holding  his  arm  affectionately.} 
Well,  I'm  glad  of  a  chance  to  be  of  some  sort  of 
use,  even  if  it's  only  to  turn  the  house  into  a 
tavern !  Have  we  abandoned  the  city  entirely  ? 

COLONEL   KNOWLTON.   No,    General   Putnam 

is  there  with  four  thousand  men.     But  everyone 

who  can  is  leaving.     The  sick  have  been  sent  over 

to   Paulus   Hook.1    I   told    Captain  Adams   he 

1  Now  Jersey  City. 


NATHAN  HALE  465 

should  stay  with  us,  and  he  brings  Alice  with 
him. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  That's  most  desirable  for 
Angelica.  This  Lebanon  person  proposed  for 
her  again  to  me  this  morning !  He  doesn't  seem 
to  understand  the  meaning  of  the  word  "No." 
The  next  time,  you'd  better  say  it  and  see  if  he 
will  understand. 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  What  is  there  against 
Mr.  Lebanon  ?  —  Where  is  Angelica  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  1  don't  know,  and  I'm  that 
worried.  [Rises  and  goes  again  to  the  window.} 
She's  been  gone  two  hours,  and  she  didn't  wear 
her  pattens. 

JASPER.  [Enters,  announcing:}  Captain  Adams, 
sah,  and  Missy. 

[COLONEL  KNOWLTON  rises  as  CAPTAIN  ADAMS 
and  ALICE  come  in.  ALICE  looks  much  more 


466  NATHAN   HALE 

of  a  young  lady  than  in  the  First  Act,  and  very 
charming  in  a  full  Hue  and  white  dress,  big 
hat,  and  black  silk  pelisse  for  travelling 
Her  father,  CAPTAIN  ADAMS,  is  a  portly,  dig 
nified,  good-hearted  man,  older  than  COLONEL 
KNOWLTON,  and  like  him  in  Colonial  uniform. 
CAPTAIN  ADAMS  kisses  MRS.  KNOWLTON, 
then  goes  to  KNOWLTON,  while  ALICE  kisses 
MRS.  KNOWLTON. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.   I'm  so  glad  you  came,  too, 
Alice.     Angelica  is  worrying  me  terribly. 

[Helping  ALICE  of  with  her  pelisse.     The  two 

women  go  up  the  stage  together. 
CAPTAIN  ADAMS.   I've  been  seeing  about  the 
public  stores  which  are  being  taken  to  Dobb's 
Ferry.     General  Washington  tells  me  he  has  asked 
you  to  hold  a  conference  here  to-day. 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.   Yes.     [Turning  to  MRS. 


NATHAN  HALE  467 

KNOWLTON.]      We    must    prepare    this    room, 
Martha. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.   What  is  the  conference  for? 
COLONEL  KNOWLTON.   We  must  discover,   in 
some  way,  what  the  enemy's  plans  are. 

CAPTAIN  ADAMS.  Yes,  what  are  these  damned 
British  going  to  do  ?  We  must  know.  The  army 
is  becoming  more  and  more  demoralized  every  day ! 
ALICE.  Only  to  think!  We've  heard  our 
soldiers  are  actually  in  need  of  the  barest  neces 
sities  of  clothing,  and  there  are  practically  no 
blankets! 

\During  ALICE'S  speech,  MRS.  KNOWLTON  goes 

to  the  door  at  Left,  opens  it  and  listens  for 

ANGELICA.     She  doses  it  and  comes  back. 

MRS.    KNOWLTON.    No    blankets  —  and    the 

Winter  coming !    Well !    I  was  married  with  six 

pairs,   and  mother  was  married  with   six,   and 


468  NATHAN  HALE 

Angelica  shan't  be  married  at  all  —  at  least,  not 
till  this  war's  over !     So  there's  three  times  six,  - 
eighteen    pairs   for    the    Continental    soldiers  — 
bless    their    hearts !    Alice,    how    about    young 
Fitzroy?     It's   rumored   again  you're   going   to 
marry  him. 

[Crossing  to  ALICE  as  she  speaks  her  name.  At 
the  same  time,  the  two  men  go  a  few  steps  up 
the  stage  and  talk  together  confidentially. 

ALICE.    Oh,  that  rumor  spreads  every  time  I 

refuse  him ;  and  I  did  again  by  post,  yesterday. 

I 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  I'm  glad  of  it !  He's  noth 
ing  like  Captain  Kale's  equal.  People  aren't 
through  talking  yet  of  his  gallant  capture  of  the 
British  sloop  in  the  East  River ! 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  Kale's  done  a  hundred 
brave  things  since  then !  The  eyes  of  the  whole 
Army  are  upon  him. 


NATHAN  HALE  469 

ALICE.  [Very  happy  and  proud.}  I  know 
something  very  few  are  aware  of.  Not  long  ago 
the  men  of  his  company,  whose  term  of  service 
had  expired,  determined  to  leave  the  ranks, 
and  he  offered  to  give  them  his  pay  if  they  would 
only  remain  a  certain  time  longer. 

[The  two  men  come  forward. 

CAPTAIN  ADAMS.  Good  Heavens!  What  my 
daughter  doesn't  know  about  Captain  Hale !  - 

ALICE.    [Beseeching.]     Father! 

CAPTAIN  ADAMS.  [Smiling.]  If  you  allow 
Alice,  she  will  spend  the  day  discanting  on  Cap 
tain  Kale's  merits.  As  for  Fitzroy,  he's  a  black 
guard.  They  say  he  would  like  to  join  the 
Americans  now,  but  don't  dare,  because  he  killed 
one  of  his  old  friends  in  a  drunken  brawl,  and  he's 
afraid  he'd  get  strung  for  it. 

COLONEL   KNOWLTON.   And   just   at    present, 


470  NATHAN  HALE 

Martha,    Captain    Adams    would  probably    be 

pleased  to  go  to  his  room. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  By  all  means  !  This  way, 
Captain.  Alice,  I  will  return  for  you  in  a  mo 
ment.  You  must  share  with  Angelica,  now  the 
house  is  to  be  turned  into  a  barracks. 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  Be  careful  you  girls 
don't  do  any  wounding  on  your  own  account. 
We've  no  men  to  spare! 

[ALICE  laughs.  MRS.  KNOWLTON  and  CAPTAIN 
ADAMS  go  out  by  the  door,  Left.  ALICE  stops 
COLONEL  KNOWLTON,  as  he  is  about  to 
follow.  She  pantomimes  him  to  come  back, 
pushes  him  down  onto  the  sofa  —  she  is  behind 
it  —  and  with  her  arms  about  his  neck,  speaks 
'  cajolingly. 

ALICE.   Uncle  Knowlton? 
COLONEL  KNOWLTON.   Yes,  my  dear. 


NATHAN  HALE  471 

ALICE.   Have  you  any  news  of  Captain  Hale? 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  How  long  is  it  since  you 
have  seen  him? 

ALICE.  Much  too  long,  and  I've  made  up  my 
mind  not  to  have  it  any  more! 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  That's  right,  don't  trust 
him.  In  Connecticut,  where  he's  been,  the  girls 
are  far  too  pretty! 

[Insinuatingly,  bending  his  head  back,  and 
looking  up  at  her  humorously. 

ALICE.  [Jealously.]  You've  heard  some  stories 
of  him  ? 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  [Teasing  her.]  Ahem ! 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  expose  a  fellow-soldier. 

ALICE.  Uncle  Knowlton,  I'm  ashamed  of  you ! 
An  old  man  like  you ! 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.   Oh,  noi  so  old ! 

ALICE.   What  do  you  know? 


472  NATHAN  HALE 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.   [Rising.]    Nothing,  my 
dear.     I  was  only  jesting.  [Starting  to  go. 

ALICE.   I'm    not    so    sure    of    that.     Wait    a 
minute ! 

[Coming  from  behind  the  sofa  to  him,  she  seizes 
hold  of  him  by  a  button  on  the  breast-  of  his 
coat,  taking  a  pair  of  scissors  from  the  table. 
The  house  bell  is  heard. 

COLONEL   KNOWLTON.   What  are  you  doing? 
ALICE.    Getting   a   soldier's   button   to   make 
Captain   Hale   jealous   with !     He   shan't   think 
he  is  the  only  one  to  flirt. 

[JASPER  enters  from  the  hall  in  answer  to  the 
house  bell,  and  crosses  the  room  to  the  door 
which  leads  to  upstairs. 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.   We  soldiers  don't  give 
buttons  away  —  we  sell  them ! 
ALICE.   Oh,  I'm  going  to  kiss  you !    You're 


NATHAN  HALE  473 

quite  old  enough  for  that,  [she  kisses  him]  but,  when 

I  tell  Nathan  about  it,  I  shall  pretend  you  were 

somebody  else,  and  young,  and  good-looking ! 

[JASPER,  who  has  watched  them  by  the  doorway, 

Right,  chuckles  and  goes  out. 
COLONEL  KNOWLTON.   Well,  you  can  tell  him 
to-day  if  you  like !  - 

[For  a  second,  ALICE  cannot  speak  for  surprise 
and  joy ;  then  she  catches  her  breath  and  cries : 
ALICE.    He's  coming  here  ! 
COLONEL  KNOWLTON.   Yes! 

[Nods  his  head  violently. 

ALICE.  Oh  !  [She  cries  out  for  very  happiness, 
and,  running  across  the  room,  throws  herself  in  an 
ecstasy  of  joy  upon  the  sofa;  then  quickly  jumps  up 
and  runs  back  to  COLONEL  KNOWLTON.]  I'll  kiss 
you  again  for  that  good  news.  [Starts  to  kiss  him; 
changes  her  mind.}  No,  I  won't,  either ! 


474  NATHAN  HALE 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.   No,  you  must  save  all 
the  rest  of  your  kisses  for  Captain  Hale  ! 

ALICE.  Oh,  dear  no !  Yours  weren't  at  all 
the  kind  I  give  him.  You  know  there  are  two 
kinds  of  visits,  —  those  we  make  because  we 
want  to  see  people,  and  those  we  make  on 
strangers,  or  after  a  party,  whether  we  want  to  or 
not.  The  latter  are  called  duty  visits!  Well?  - 
Do  you  understand? 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.   No,  not  in  the  least. 

ALICE.    Stupid !     Your  kiss  was  a  duty  visit. 
[With  a  low  mocking  curtsey.}     What  hour  is  he 


coming  ? 


COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  I  won't  tell  you,  Miss ! 
I  won't  give  you  another  party,  all  for  that  one 
little  duty  visit. 

[And  he  starts  to  go  out  by  the  door,  Left. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  [Of  the  stage,  Left,  calls:] 
Thomas ! 


NATHAN  HALE  475 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.   Coming,  Martha ! 

[He  doses  the  door  behind  him. 

ALICE.    [Dances    half-way    around    the    room, 
singing, 

" Nathan  is  coming,  to-day,  to-day! 

Nathan  is  coming  to-day,  to-day!"  etc.,  etc., 
till  she  reaches  the  mirror  on  the  wall  at  the  Left. 
She  examines  herself  critically  in  the  glass,  still 
singing,  takes  a  rose  from  a  vase  and  puts  it  in  her 
hair,  retouches  her  toilet  where  she  can,  and  pinches 
her  cheeks  to  make  them  red.}  Oh,  dear,  I  wish  I 
were  prettier !  I  wonder  what  those  Connecticut 
girls  are  like !  — 

[ANGELICA   appears   outside   the   window,    and 
thrusts  her  head  in. 

ANGELICA.   [Whispers.]     Alice! 

ALICE.    [Startled.]     Oh!  Angelica! 

ANGELICA.   Sh !  .  .  .  don't   look  —  turn   your 
head  the  other  way. 


476  NATHAN  HALE 

ALICE.   What  in  the  world  — ! 
ANGELICA.   Sh  —  Go  on  —  Please.  .  .  . 
[ALICE  turns  her  back  to  the  window.     ANGELICA 
beckons,  off  Left,  and  runs  past  the  window,  fol 
lowed  by  LEBANON,  quickly.     The  front  door  is 
heard  to  slam.     ANGELICA  puts  her  head  in  at 
the  doorway,  Right. 
ALICE.   What's  the  matter? 
ANGELICA.   Alice  !     Matter  !     Matter  enough  ! 
I'm  married !  ! 
ALICE.   [Loudly.]    What!  ! 
ANGELICA.    [Frightened.]   Sh  !  Where  is  mother  ? 
ALICE.   Upstairs. 

ANGELICA.  Very  well.  [Speaks  over  her 
shoulder.]  Come  along,  darling !  [She  enters, 
followed  by  LEBANON,  dressed  in  Continental 
uniform.  He  wears  a  white  wedding  favor,  and 
carries  a  gun  awkwardly.]  I'm  a  married  woman, 


NATHAN  HALE  477 

Alice  !  [She  turns  and  directs  ALICE'S  attention  to 
LEBANON,  on  whom  she  gazes  lovingly*]  Isn't  he 
beautiful  in  his  soldier  clothes  ?  [LEBANON  smiles, 
embarrassed  but  happy,  and  goes  to  shake  hands 
with  ALICE.]  Go  on,  you  can  kiss  him,  Alice.  I 
won't  be  jealous,  just  this  once,  on  our  wedding- 
day ! 

LEBANON.  [To  ANGELICA.]  No,  really,  thank 
you,  Precious,  but  I'd  rather  not.  [To  ALICE.] 
You  don't  mind  ? 

ALICE.  [Smiling.]  Oh,  no,  pray  don't  put 
yourself  out  for  me ! 

ANGELICA.  [Aside  to  LEBANON.]  You've  hurt 
her  feelings.  [She  tries  to  take  his  arm,  but  it  is 
his  right,  in  which  he  carries  his  gun.  Aloud.} 
Hold  your  gun  in  your  other  hand.  I  want  to 
take  your  arm.  [He  changes  his  gun  awkwardly. 
They  stand  together,  arm  in  arm,  her  head  on  his 


478  NATHAN  HALE 

shoulder,  and  she  gives  a  happy  sigh.]     Alice,  will 
you  break  it  to  mother,  at  once  ? 

ALICE.  Mercy !  I  forgot  about  that.  It's  an 
elopement ! 

ANGELICA.  Yes,  and  in  the  daytime  !  I  hated 
to  do  without  a  moon,  but  I  could  never  get  away 
evenings ! 

ALICE.   Does  your  mother  suspect? 

ANGELICA.  Not  a  sign.  She  refused  Ebenezer 
again  this  morning ! 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  [Calls  from  o/  stage,  Left.] 
Alice ! 

[All  start.  ANGELICA  and  LEBANON  show  abject 
terror,  and,  "grabbing"  for  each  other,  cling 
together. 

ANGELICA.  Oh,  she's  coming  !  Save  us.  Alice, 
save  us ! 

ALTCE.   Quick !     Go  back  into  the  hall. 

[Starts  pushing  them  out. 


NATHAN  HALE  479 

LEBANON.   Do  it  gently,  Miss  Alice. 
ANGELICA.   Yes,    mother    couldn't    stand    too 
great  a  shock! 

[They  go  out,  Right.     ALICE  takes  a  ribbon  out  of 

the  little  bag  she  carries,  and,  putting  COLONEL 

KNOWLTON'S  button  on  it,  ties  it  around  her 

neck,  as  MRS.  KNOWLTON  comes  into  the  room. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.   I  heard  voices.     What  did 

they  want  ? 

ALICE.  [Embarrassed,  but  amused.]  They  de 
sired  me  to  tell  you,  as  gently  as  possible,  that 
they  —  that  she  —  that  he  —  well,  that  you 
are  a  mother-in-law  ! 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.   What  do  you  mean,  child, 
by  calling  me  names  ? 
ALICE.   Angelica  — 

MRS.    KNOWLTON.   Angelica!  —  Mother-in-law 
—  Alice,  don't    tell  me !     Give   me   air !     Give 
me  air ! 


480  NATHAN  HALE 

ALICE.    [Fanning  her.]     Air! 

MRS.  KNOWLTON,  No  !  no  !  I  mean  something 
to  sit  on.  Angelica  —  my  baby! — •  hasn't  made 
herself  miserable  for  life  ? 

[Sitting  in  a  chair  which  ALICE  brings  forward 
for  her. 

ALICE.   No!     She's  married! 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  It's  the  same  thing !  Who 
was  the  wicked  child's  accomplice  ?  [She  suddenly 
realizes,  and  rises.]  It  wasn't  —  it  wasn't  —  that 
-  [she  chokes]  that  —  that !  - 

ALICE.   Lebanon ! 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  No !  [Her  legs  give  way, 
owing  to  her  emotions,  and  she  sits  suddenly  in  the 
chair.]  I  won't  believe  it !  Those  children ! 
I'll  spank  them  both  and  put  them  to  bed !  No  ! 
I  won't  do  that  either !  Where  are  they  ? 

ALICE.   In  the  halL 


NATHAN  HALE  481 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  [Rises  and  gestures  tragically] 
Call  them ! 

ALICE.    [Going  to  the  door,  Right.}     You  won't 
be  cruel  to  her  —  [MRS.  KNOWLTON  breathes  hard 
through  her  tightly  compressed  lips.}     Angelica! 
[ANGELICA  and  LEBANON  enter  timidly. 

ANGELICA.   Mother ! 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  Don't  come  near  me !  I  - 
you  undutiful  child !  [She  begins  to  break  down, 
and  tears  threaten  her.  To  LEBANON.]  As  for 
you,  sir  —  words  fails  me—  I  —  [She  breaks  down 
completely,  and  turns  to  ANGELICA.]  Oh,  come  to 
my  arms  !  [Th-e  last  is  meant  for  ANGELICA  only, 
but  LEBANON  takes  it  for  himself  also.  Both 
ANGELICA  and  LEBANON  go  to  MRS.  KNOWLTON'S 
arms,  but  she  repulses  LEBANON.]  Not  you,  sir ! 
Not  you!  [And  enfolds  ANGELICA.]  My  little 
girl !  Why  did  you  ?  -  [Crying. 


482  NATHAN  HALE 

ANGELICA.  [Herself  a  little  tearful.]  He  said 
he'd  go  fight  if  I'd  marry  him !  And  I  heard  so 
much  of  our  needing  soldiers.  I  did  it,  a  little,  for 
the  sake  of  the  country ! 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  Rubbish !  Come  to  my 
room !  — 

ANGELICA.  Look  at  him,  mother!  And  I 
wouldn't  marry  him  till  he  put  them  all  on! 
Gun  and  all ! 

LEBANON.   [Timidly.]     Mother ! 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  [Turning.]  What!!  How 
dare  you,  sir ! 

LEBANON.  Please  be  a  mother  to  me,  just  for  a 
few  minutes.  I'm  going  off  to  fight  this  evening. 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.  [Witheringly.]  Fight !  You  ? 

LEBANON.  Yes,  I  said  to  my  wife  —  [These 
words  very  proudly.  ANGELICA  also  straightens  up 
ot  them,  and  MRS.  KNOWLTON  gasps  angrily.] 


NATHAN  HALE  483 

Let's  begin  with  your  mother,  and  if  I'm  not 
afraid  before  her,  I'll  be  that  much  encouraged 
toward  facing  the  British. 

[ANGELICA,  seizing  LEBANON'S  free  hand,  says 
"Come,"  and  the  two  kneel  at  MRS.  KNOWL- 
TON'S  feet,  in  the  manner  of  old-fashioned 
story-books. 

ANGELICA.   Forgive  him,  mother,  for  the  sake 
of  the  country  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLTON.   H'm !     We'll  see  —  [She  goes 
out  saying:]     Come,  Angelica  ! 
[ANGELICA  follows  her  out,  beckoning  to  LEBANON 
to  follow,  which  he  does,  pushed  forward  by 
ALICE.     ALICE  is  left  alone.    JASPER  enters 
from  the  Right. 

JASPER.   Has    Colonel    Knowlton    gone    out, 
Missy  ? 
ALICE.   No,  Jasper. 


484  NATHAN   HALE 

JASPER.    'Cause  thah's  a  young  Captain  Hale 

hyah  to  pay  his  respecks. 

ALICE.    Captain  Hale ! 

JASPER.   Yaas,  Missy. 

ALICE.  Then  never  you  mind  about  Colonel 
Knowlton,  Jasper  ;  7  will  take  all  the  respects  that 
gentleman  has  to  pay ! 

JASPER.   La,  Missy!     Is  you  sweet  on  him? 
[Opens  door.]     This  way,  sah !     Hyah's  a  young 
lady  says  as  how  she's  been  waiting  up  sence  sun 
rise  foa  you ! 
ALICE.   Jasper! 

[HALE  enters. 

HALE.  [Seeing  her,  is  very  much  surprised.} 
Alice ! 

[He  rushes  to  her  and  takes  her  in  his  arms. 

JASPER.    [By  the  door,  Right,  with  much  feeling.] 

Dat's  right,  kiss  on,  ma  honeys!"    Smack  each 


NATHAN  HALE  485 

other  straight  from  the  heart.  It  does  ole  Jasper 
good  to  see  you.  Thah's  a  little  yaller  gal  lying 
out  in  the  graveyard,  yonder,  dat  knows  ole 
Jasper  was  fond  of  kissing,  too!  [ALICE  and 
HALE  finish  their  embrace,  and  sit  side  by  side  on 
the  sofa.  They  are  unconscious  of  the  presence  of 
JASPER,  who  lingers  to  enjoy  their  love,  unable  to 
tear  himself  away.  He  speaks  softly  to  himself.] 
Don't  stop,  ma  honeys,  don't  stop ! 

HALE.   I  had  no  hint  I  should  find  you  here. 

[Taking  her  hand. 

ALICE.    Father  brought  me,  to-day. 

JASPER.    [Taking  a  step  nearer  to  them  behind 
the  sofa.]     Bress  their  little  souls ! 

HALE.   I   have   just   come   down   from    Con 
necticut  —  a  lovely  part  of  the  country. 

[ALICE  draws  her  hand  away. 

ALICE.   Yes.     I've  heard  of  you  there. 


486  NATHAN  HALE 

JASPER.  [Coming  in  earshot,  disappointed.]  Oh, 
go  on,  ma  honeys,  don't  stop !  Kiss  again,  jes' 
for  ole  Jasper's  sake! 

ALICE.   Jasper! 

HALE.   What  do  you  want,  Jasper? 

JASPER.  Want  to  see  you  kiss  again,  Cappen. 
It  warms  ma  ole  heart,  it  does ! 

HALE.  [Laughing.]  I'll  warm  something  else 
for  you,  if  you  don't  get  out ! 

JASPER.  You  don'  mind  ole  Jasper,  Cappen? 
Why,  I  done  see  the  nobles'  in  the  Ian'  kiss  right 
yah  in  this  very  room ! 

HALE.  Well,  you  go  away  now.  You  have 
kissing  on  the  brain! 

JASPER.  Maybe  I  has,  Cappen,  but  I'd  a  deal 
sight  rather  have  it  on  the  lips!  You  ain't 
the  on'y  sojer  anyway,  Cappen,  what  Missy's 
kissed.  Take  ole  Jasper's  word  for  dat,  you 


NATHAN  HALE  487 

ain't    the    on'y    one   this   very   day,   you   take 
ole  Jasper's  word  for  dat ! 

[Chuckling. 

ALICE.  [Leading  JASPER  on  to  make  HALE 
jealous.]  Why,  Jasper,  where  were  you? 

JASPER.  I  was  jes'  comin'  in,  Missy,  and  jes' 
goin'  out.  I  shet  my  eyes  tight,  but  they  would 
squint,  honey !  Jasper's  ears,  anyway,  are  jes' 
as  sartin  as  stealin'  to  hear  kissin'  goin'  on  any 
where  round  these  hyah  parts. 

[He  goes  out,  Right. 

HALE.  Is  that  true?  [ALICE  looks  at  him, 
smiling  prowkingly,  and  playing  with  the  military 
button  around  her  neck,  to  call  his  attention  to  it. 
He  sees  the  button.]  Whose  — 

[He  stops  himself,  resolved  not  to  ask  her  about  it, 

but  he  can't  take  his  eyes  of  it. 
ALICE.   /   wish    to   ask    a   question   or    two ! 


488  NATHAN  HALE 

How  many  young  ladies  did  you  see  in  Connecti 
cut? 

HALE.  [Moodily.]  I  don't  know.  What  sol 
dier's  button  is  that  you  wear  on  your  neck  ? 

ALICE.  What  young  ladies  have  you  made  love 
to,  since  we've  been  separated? 

HALE.   Whom  did  you  kiss  to-day,  before  me? 

ALICE.   Confess ! 

HALE.   Whom? 

ALICE.  [Rises.]  Captain  Hale,  [with  a  curtsey} 
I'm  not  your  pupil  any  longer,  to  be  catechized  so  ! 

HALE.  [Rises  also.]  Very  well !  Please  tell 
your  uncle,  Colonel  Knowlton,  I  am  here  to  see 
him. 

ALICE.  Captain  Hale,  [another  curtsey]  I 
shan't  do  any  such  thing. 

HALE.   Then  I'll  go  find  him  myself! 

[Going  toward  the  door,  Left. 


NATHAN  HALE  489 

ALICE.   [Running  before  him.}     No,  you  won't 
—  Captain  Hale  - 

[Going  before  the  door  and  barring  his  way. 
HALE.    Give  me  that  button! 

[His  eyes  on  it. 

ALICE.  [Leaning  against  the  door-frame.}  Not 
for  worlds ! 

[Kissing  it. 

HALE.  [Looking  about  the  room.}  I'll  climb  out 
the  window. 

[ALICE   runs   to   prevent   him,   and  gets   to   the 

window  first. 

ALICE.  Do,  if  you  like,  but  I  shan't  follow  you 
this  time! 

HALE.  Ah,  you  remember  that  day  in  the 
schoolhouse,  when  you  promised  to  be  a  soldier's 
sweetheart?  I  didn't  know  you  meant  a  whole 
regiment's! 


490  NATHAN  HALE 

ALICE.    [Coming  away  from  the  window,  indig 
nant.]     How  dare  you !    Leave  my  house ! 

HALE.   Whose  house  ? 

ALICE.   I  mean  —  my  uncle's  house. 

HALE.  Which  way  may  I  go  ?  The  way  I  came? 

ALICE.    [Witheringly.]     Yes,  back  to  your  Con 
necticut  young  ladies ! 

HALE.   Thank  you ! 

[Bows,  and  steps  out  of  the  low  window.  ALICE 
stands  listening  a  moment,  then  hurries  to  the 
window  and  leans  out,  calling. 

ALICE.   Nathan !     Nathan !     Where    are    you 
going? 

HALE.   Where  you  sent  me  —  to  —  ahem !  — 
Connecticut ! 

ALICE.   Are  there  so  many  pretty  girls  there  ? 

HALE.   There  isn't  a  petticoat  in  the  State  — 
at  least  there  wasn't  for  my  eyes ! 


NATHAN  HALE  491 

ALICE.  Then  come  back!  Come  back! 
Quickly ! 

[NATHAN  reappears  outside  the  window. 

HALE.   Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself? 

ALICE.   No! 

HALE.    [Laughing.]     Then  I  won't  come  back  ! 

ALICE.   Very  well,  sir,  don't ! 

HALE.   What  reward  will  you  give  me,  if  I  do  ? 

ALICE.    [Thinks  a  second.]     This  button! 

HALE.  Good !  [Putting  his  hands  on  window- 
ledge,  he  springs  in.  He  holds  out  his  hand  for  the 
button.]  Give  it  to  me  ! 

ALICE.  [Teasing,  pretends  to  be  sad  and  re 
pentant.}  First,  I  must  make  a  confession. 

HALE.   [Depressed.]     Go  on. 

ALICE.   And  tell  you  whom  I  kissed. 

HALE.   [More  depressed.]     Well? 

ALICE.   You'll  forgive  me? 


492  NATHAN  HALE 

HALE.    [Desperate,  between  his  teeth.]     Yes ! 
ALICE.    [Looks  up,  smiling  mischievously.]     It 
was  Uncle  Knowlton! 

[HALE  starts,  looks  at  her  a  moment,  compre 
hends,  then  laughs. 

HALE.   You  little  devil,  you!     To  tease  your 
true  love  out  of  his  wits.     But  I  will  make  you 
regret  it  —  I  have  been  very  ill  in  Connecticut. 
ALICE.   That's  why  you  were  there  so  long ! 
[All  her  teasing  humor  vanishes,  and,  for  the  rest 
of  the  A  ct,  ALICE  is  serious.     From  this  moment 
in  the  play  the  woman  in  her  slowly  and  finally 
usurps  the  girl. 

HALE.  Yes.  As  soon  as  I  was  able,  I  came 
on  here.  I've  been  out  of  the  fighting  long 
enough. 

ALICE.  Fighting!  Is  there  to  be  another  battle 
at  once?  Is  that  what  this  conference  is  for? 


NATHAN  HALE  493 

HALE.  I  don't  know,  but  we  must  attack,  or 
we'll  be  driven  entirely  out  of  New  York,  as  we 
were  out  of  Boston. 

ALICE.  General  Washington  has  twenty  thou 
sand  men ! 

HALE.  Yes,  with  no  arms  for  half  of  them, 
and  two-thirds  undrilled.  Good  Heavens,  the 
patient  courage  of  that  man !  Each  defeat,  he 
says,  only  trains  his  men  the  better,  and  fits  them 
for  winning  victory  in  the  end!  But  General 
Howe  has  crossed,  now,  to  Long  Island,  with 
thirty  thousand  British  soldiers. 

ALICE.  Oh,  this  dreadful  war!  When  will  it 
end? 

HALE.  Not  till  we've  won  our  freedom,  or 
every  man  among  us  is  dead  or  jailed ! 

ALICE.  That's  the  horror  that  comes  to  me  at 
night,  Nathan.  I  see  you  starving,  choking,  in 


494  NATHAN  HALE 

some  black  hole,  with  one  of  those  brutes  of  a 
redcoat  over  you,  or  worse, — lying  on  the  battle 
field,  wounded,  dying,  and  away  from  me!  There's 
one  horrible  dream  that  comes  to  me  often !  It 
came  again  last  week!  I'm  in  an  orchard,  and 
the  trees  are  pink  and  white  with  blossoms,  and 
the  birds  are  singing,  and  the  air  is  sweet  with 
Spring  ;  then  great  clouds  of  smoke  drift  through, 
and  the  little  birds  drop  dead  from  their  branches, 
and  the  pink  petals  fall  blood-red  on  the  white 
face  of  a  soldier  lying  on  the  ground,  and  it's  you 
—  [in  a  hysterical  frenzy]  you !  I  And  —  then  I 
wake  up,  and  oh,  my  God !  I'm  afraid  some  day 
it  will  happen !  Nathan !  Nathan  ! 

HALE.  My  darling,  my  darling!  It's  only  a 
war  dream,  such  as  comes  to  everyone  in  times 
like  these! 

[Taking  her  in  his  arms  and  comforting  her. 


NATHAN  HALE  495 

ALICE.  Yes,  and  how  often  they  prove  true ! 
Oh,  Nathan,  must  you  go  on  fighting? 

HALE.   Alice ! 

ALICE.  Yes,  yes,  of  course  you  must.  I  know 
we  need  every  man  we  have,  and  more !  Ah,  if 
only  I  were  one,  to  fight  by  your  side,  or  even  a 
drummer-boy  to  lead  you  on !  [She  adds  with  a 
slight  smile,  and  a  momentary  return  to  her  girlish 
humor,  and  quickly,  in  a  confidential  tone,  as  if 
she  were  telling  a  secret:}  I  would  be  very  careful 
where  I  led  you!  Not  where  the  danger  was 
greatest,  I'll  warrant !  [She  returns  to  her  former 
serious  mood]  Nathan,  listen.  Promise  me  one 
thing,  —  that  when  you  do  go  back  to  the  fighting, 
you  won't  expose  yourself  unnecessarily! 

HALE.  [Smiling.]  My  dear  little  woman,  I 
don't  know  what  you  mean  ! 

ALICE.   Yes,  you  do !     You  must !     It.  isn't  a 


496  NATHAN  HALE 

foolish  thing  I'm  asking !  And  I  ask  it  for  your 
love  of  me!  You  must  fight,  of  course,  and  I 
want  you  to  fight  bravely  -—  you  couldn't  do 
otherwise,  —  that  you've  proved  time  and  again ! 
Well,  let  it  be  so  !  Fight  bravely  !  But  promise 
me  you  won't  let  yourself  be  carried  away  into 
leading  some  forlorn  hope ;  that  you  won't  risk 
your  precious  life  just  to  encourage  others !  Re 
member,  it's  my  life  now  !  Don't  volunteer  to  do 
more  than  your  duty  as  a  soldier  demands,  —  not 
more,  for  my  sake.  Don't  willingly  place  the  life 
I  claim  for  mine  in  any  jeopardy  your  honor  as  a 
soldier  does  not  make  imperative.  Will  you 
promise  me  that? 

HALE.   Yes,  dear,  I  will  promise  you  that. 

ALICE.   That  you  won't  risk  your  life  unneces 
sarily?     Swear  it  to  me! 

HALE.   [Smiling]    By  what? 


NATHAN  HALE  497 

ALICE.    [Very  serious.]    By  your  love  for  me, 
and  mine  for  you. 

HALE.    [Serious.]     I  swear  it ! 
ALICE.   Ah,  God  bless  you  ! 
[In  the  greatest  relief,  and  with  joy,  she  goes  to 
embrace  him,  but  they  stand  apart,  startled  by  a 
loud  knocking  of  the  iron  knocker  on  the  front 
door  of  the  house. 

HALE.   The  men,  beginning  to  come  for  the 
conference ! 

ALICE.   Oh,  I  wish  I  could  stay  !     Can't  I  stay  ? 
HALE.   No.    No  women  can  be  present. 
ALICE.   If  I  asked  Uncle ? 
HALE.   He  hasn't  the  power ! 
[COLONEL    KNOWLTON    and    CAPTAIN   ADAMS 

come  into  the  room  from  upstairs. 
COLONEL    KNOWLTON.   Ah,    Hale,    you're    in 
good  time ! 


498  NATHAN  HALE 

[Shakes  his  hand,  and  HALE  passes  on  and  shakes 
CAPTAIN  ADAMS'S  hand,  as  JASPER  ushers  in 
three  other  men  in  uniform,  who  are  greeted 
cordially  by  COLONEL  KNOWLTON,  and  who 
pass  on  in  turn  to  CAPTAIN  ADAMS  and  HALE, 
with  whom  each  also  shakes  hands.  Mean 
while,  ALICE,  seeing  she  is  unobserved,  steals 
to  the  big  window  recess,  where  she  conceals 
herself  behind  the  curtains.  While  the  men 
are  greeting  each  other  with  the  ordinary 
phrases,  JASPER  speaks  at  the  door,  Right. 
JASPER.  [Shaking  his  head]  What  a  pity 

Colonel     Knowlton    was     down     already !    Ole 

Jasper  was  jes'  a-countin'  on  gittin'  another  kiss  ! 

[Starts  to  go  out,  but  stops  to  hold  door  open,  saying :[ 

This  way,  gemmen,  if  you  please. 

[HULL,  a  handsome  young  officer,  HALE'S  age,  and 
another  man  in  uniform  enter.  They  greet,  first 
COLONEL  KNOWLTON,  and  then  the  others. 


NATHAN  HALE  499 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  Jasper,  arrange  the 
chairs  and  table  for  us. 

JASPER.  Yaas,  sir.  [He  goes  about  the  room 
arranging  chairs  and  talking  aloud  to  himself. 
Places  table  for  COLONEL  KNOWLTON  at  Right,  with 
a  chair  behind  it,  and  groups  the  other  chairs  in  a 
semicircle  on  the  Left.  Three  more  men  come  in 
together,  and  two  separately,  each  one  shaking  hands 
all  around,  and  always  with  COLONEL  KNOWLTON 
first.}  Lor'  save  us,  ef  I  knows  how  to  arrange 
chahs  for  dis  hyah  meetin' !  It  ain't  exackly  a 
gospel  meetin',  no  yetwise  a  funeral.  Mo'  like  a 
funeral  'n  anything  else,  I  reckon !  Funeral  o' 
dat  tha  British  Lion.  [Moving  the  table.}  Dat's 
the  place  for  the  corpse.  [Placing  a  chair  behind.} 
Dat's  fo'  the  preacher,  and  these  hyah  other 
chahs  —  [with  a  final  arrangement  of  the  chairs]  is 
fo'  de  mourners !  Guess  dey's  mighty  glad  to 
get  red  o'  sech  a  pesky  ole  relation ;  seems  as  ef 


500  NATHAN  HALE 

she  want  de  mother  country,  but  mo'  like  de 
mother-in-law    country,   to    ole    Jasper's   mind ! 
[At  this  moment,  COLONEL  KNOWLTON,  looking 

up,  sees  that  all  is  ready. 
COLONEL   KNOWLTON.   [With  a  motion  to  the 
men,  and  to  the  chairs.]     Brother  soldiers ! 

[They  take  their  places  in  the  chairs  according  to 
their  military  rank,  HALE  in  the  last  row, 
behind  all  the  others.  COLONEL  KNOWLTON 
takes  his  chair  behind  the  table.  JASPER 
draws  the  heavy  brocade  curtains  in  front  of  the 
window  recess,  and  in  so  doing  discovers  ALICE. 
He  starts,  but,  with  her  finger  on  her  lips,  she 
motions  him  to  be  silent.  None  of  the  others 
know  she  is  there.  TOM  ADAMS  enters  in 
Continental  soldier's  uniform.  He  gives  the 
military  salute. 
TOM.  Uncle,  may  I  be  present  ? 


NATHAN  HALE  501 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  Yes,  my  boy,  if  no  one 
has  any  objection.  [He  looks  at  the  other  men,  but 
they  all  murmur,  "Oh,  no,  no"  and  "Certainly 
not,"  and  TOM  takes  his  place  beside  HALE  at  the 
back.}  That  is  all,  Jasper,  and  we  are  not  to  be 
interrupted. 

JASPER.   Yaas,  sir. 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  Not  on  pain  of  im 
prisonment,  Jasper. 

JASPER.  Nobody's  not  gwine  to  get  into  this 
hyah  room,  Colonel,  with  ole  Jasper  outside  the 
door,  not  even  King  George  hisself,  honey. 

[With  a  stolen  look  toward  the  window  where 
ALICE  is  hiding,  he  goes  out,  Right.  A 
moment's  important  silence.  The  men  are  all 
composed,  serious. 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  [Who  has  taken  a  letter 
from  his  pocket.}  Gentlemen,  I  will  first  read  you 


502  NATHAN  HALE 

portions  of  a  letter  from  General  Washington  to 
General  Heath,  forwarded  to  me  with  the  request 
from  headquarters  that  I  should  summon  you 
hereto-day.  [He  reads.]  "  The  fate  of  the  whole 
war  depends  upon  obtaining  intelligence  of  the 
enemy's  motions;  I  do  most  earnestly  entreat 
you  and  General  Clinton  to  exert  yourselves  to 
accomplish  this  most  desirable  end.  I  was  never 
more  uneasy  than  on  account  of  my  want  of 
knowledge  on  this  score.  It  is  vital"  [He  closes 
the  letter,  and  places  it  in  his  breast  pocket.}  Gen 
tlemen,  General  Heath,  General  Clinton,  and 
General  Washington  together  have  decided  there 
is  but  one  thing  to  be  done.  [^4  moment'' s  pause.} 
A  competent  person  must  be  sent,  in  disguise,  into 
the  British  camp  on  Long  Island,  to  find  out  these 
secrets  on  which  depends  everything  !  It  must  be 
a  man  with  some  experience  in  military  affairs, 


NATHAN  HALE  503 

with  some  scientific  knowledge,  —  a  man  of  educa 
tion,  one  with  a  quick  eye,   a  cool  head,  and 
courage,  —  unflinching    courage  !     He   will  need 
tact  and  caution,  and,  above  all,  he  must  be  one 
in  whose  judgment   and  fidelity   the  American 
Nation  may  have  implicit  confidence!     I  have 
summoned  those  men  associated  with  me  in  the 
command  of  our  Army,  whom  I  personally  think 
capable  of  meeting  all  these  requirements.     To 
the  man  who  offers  his  services,  in  compensation 
for  the  risks  he  must  run,  is  given  the  opportunity 
of   serving   his   country   supremely !     Does   any 
one  of  the  men  of  this  company,  now  before  me, 
volunteer?     [He  ends  solemnly  and  most  impres 
sively.     There  is  a  long  pause;  the  men  do  not  move, 
and  keep  their  faces  set,  staring  before  them.     After 
waiting  in  vain  for  some  one  to  speak,  KNOWLTON 
continues.}     Not  one?    Have  I  pleaded  so  feebly 


504  NATHAN  HALE 

in  behalf  of  my  country,  then  ?  Or  have  I  failed 
in  placing  her  dire  necessity  before  you  ?  Surely 
you  don't  need  me  to  tell  you  how  our  Conti 
nental  Army  is  weak,  wasted,  unfed,  unclothed, 
unsupplied  with  ammunition.  We  could  not 
stand  a  long  siege,  nor  can  we  stand  a  sudden 
combined  attack.  We  must  know  beforehand, 
and  escape  from  both,  should  either  be  planned  ! 
After  fighting  bravely,  as  we  have,  are  we  to  lose 
all  we  have  gained,  the  liberty  within  our  grasp 
at  this  late  day  ?  No !  One  of  you  will  come 
forward !  What  is  it  your  country  asks  of  you  ? 
Only  to  be  a  hero ! 

HULL.   No!    To  be  a  spy! 

[A  murmur  of  assent  from  the  men. 

CAPTAIN  ADAMS.  There's  not  a  man  amongst 
us  who  wouldn't  lead  a  handful  of  men  against  a 
regiment  of  the  English !  who  wouldn't  fight  for 


NATHAN  HALE  505 

liberty  in  the  very  mouth  of  the  cannon !  But 
this  is  a  request  not  meant  for  men  like  us. 

HULL.  [Looking  at  the  other  -men.}  We  are  all 
true  patriots  here,  I  take  it ! 

ALL.   Aye!     Aye!     Patriots! 

HULL.  [Appealing  to  the  men.}  Are  we  the  men 
to  be  called  on  to  play  a  part  which  every  nation 
looks  upon  with  scorn  and  contumely? 

ALL.   No!     No! 

HULL.  [Turning  again  to  KNOWLTON.]  I  would 
give  my  life  for  my  country,  but  not  my  honor! 

ALL.   Hear!     Hear! 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  But,  do  you  under 
stand?  Do  you  realize  all  that's  at  stake? 

ALL.   Yes  !     Yes ! 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  Then  surely  one  of  you 
will  come  forward  in  response  to  this  desperate 
appeal  from  your  Chief.  In  the  name  of  Wash- 


506  NATHAN  HALE 

ington,  I  ask  for  a  volunteer !  [He  waits.  Silence 
again.  He  rises.]  Men !  Listen  to  me !  Shall 
our  fathers  and  brothers,  killed  on  the  field  of 
battle,  be  sacrificed  for  nothing  ?  Will  you  stand 
still  beside  their  dead  bodies  and  see  our  hero, 
George  Washington,  shot  down  before  your  eyes 
as  a  traitor?  Will  you  accept  oppression  again, 
and  give  up  Liberty,  now  you've  won  it  ?  Or  is 
there,  in  the  name  of  God,  one  man  among  you 
to  come  forward  with  his  life  and  his  honor  in  his 
hands  to  lay  down,  if  needs  be,  for  his  country? 

[After  a  short  pause,  HALE  rises,  pale,  but  calm. 

HALE.   /  will  undertake  it ! 

[General  surprise,  not  unmixed  with  consternation, 
and  all  murmur,  questioningly ,  "Hale!"  A 
short  pause. 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.   Captain  Nathan  Hale — 

[HALE  comes  forward. 


NATHAN  HALE  507 

CAPTAIN  ADAMS.  [Interrupting,  rises.]  I  pro 
test  against  allowing  Captain  Hale  to  go  on  this 
errand ! 

HULL.   And  I! 

ALL.   And  I!    And  I ! 

CAPTAIN  ADAMS.  Captain  Hale  is  too  valuable 
a  member  of  the  Army  for  us  to  risk  losing.  [He 
turns  to  HALE.]  Hale,  you  can't  do  this!  You 
haven't  the  right  to  sacrifice  the  brilliant  prospects 
of  your  life !  The  hopes  of  your  family,  of  your 
friends,  of  us,  your  fellow-soldiers !  Let  some 
one  else  volunteer;  you  must  withdraw  your 
offer. 

[A  second's  pause.  All  look  at  HALE  question 
ing. 

HALE.  [Quietly.]  Colonel  Knowlton,  I  repeat 
my  offer ! 

CAPTAIN    ADAMS.      [Rising,    excitedly.]     No ! 


5o8  NATHAN  HALE 

We  are  all  opposed  to  it !  Surely  we  have  some 
influence  with  you !  It  is  to  certain  death  that 
you  are  needlessly  exposing  yourself ! 

HALE.   Needlessly? 

HULL.  [Also  rising,  excitedly.]  It  is  to  more 
than  certain  death,  —  it  is  to  an  ignominious  one  ! 
Captain  Hale,  as  a  member  of  your  own  regiment, 
I  ask  you  not  to  undertake  this!  [HALE  shakes 
his  head  simply.]  We  will  find  some  one  else ! 
Some  one  who  can  be  more  easily  spared.  [Here 
he  loses  his  manner  of  soldier,  and  speaks  impul 
sively  as  a  boy.]  Nathan  —  dear  old  man  !  — 
We  were  schoolboys  together,  and  for  the  love  we 
bore  each  other  then,  and  have  ever  since,  for  the 
love  of  all  those  who  love  you  and  whom  you 
hold  dear,  I  beg  you  to  listen  to  me ! 

HALE.    [Looks  at  HULL  with  a  smile  of  affection 
and  gratitude,  and  turns  to  KNOWLTON.]     I  under- 


NATHAN  HALE  509 

stand,  sir,  there  is  no  one  else  ready  to  perform 
this  business? 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  I  must  confess  there  is 
no  one,  Captain. 

HALE.    Then  I  say  again,  I  will  go. 

TOM  .  [Hurrying  forward.]  Mr.  Hale  !  —  Sir  ! 
—  Captain !  [Seizes  HALE'S  hand.}  For  the 
sake  of  my  sis  — • 

[He  is  interrupted  quickly  and  suddenly  by  HALE, 
who  places  his  hand  on  his  mouth  to  prevent  his 

• 

speaking  the  rest.     HALE  takes  a  long  breath, 
sets  his  face,  then  gives  TOM'S  hand  a  mighty 
grip,  and  puts  him  behind  him. 
HALE.    [Who  is  much  moved,  but  gradually  con 
trols  himself.}     Gentlemen,  I  thank  you  all  for 
the  affection  you  have  shown  me,  but  I  think  I 
owe  to  my  country  the  accomplishment  of  an 
object  so  important  and  so  much  desired  by  the 


5io  NATHAN  HALE 

Commander  of  her  armies.  I  am  fully  sensible 
of  the  consequences  of  discovery  and  capture  in 
such  a  situation,  but  I  hold  that  every  kind  of 
service  necessary  for  the  public  good  becomes 
honorable  by  being  necessary  !  And  my  country's 
claims  upon  me  are  imperious ! 

[Unnoticed  by  the  men,  ALICE  draws  aside  the 
curtains,  and  comes  slowly  forward  during 
COLONEL  KNOWLTON'S  following  speech. 

COLONEL  KNOWLTON.  [Rises,  and  going  to 
HALE,  shakes  his  hand  with  deep  feeling.}  Manly, 
wise,  and  patriotic  words,  sir,  which  I  am  sure 
your  country  will  not  forget !  I  —  I  will  call  for 
you  this  afternoon  to  appear  before  Washington. 
Gentlemen,  this  conference  is  finished. 

[A  general  movement  of  the  men  is  immediately 
arrested  by  ALICE'S  voice. 

ALICE.   No !     It  is  not ! 


NATHAN  HALE  511 

CAPTAIN  ADAMS.   Alice ! 

[ALICE  is  white,  haggard,  "beside  herself." 
She  is  oblivious  of  all  but  HALE.  She  goes  to 
him,  and,  seizing  his  wrist,  holds  it  in  a  tight 
but  trembling  grasp. 

ALICE.    [In     a     low,     hoarse    whisper.]     Your 
promise  to  me  !     Your  promise  ! 

HALE.   [Surprised.]     Do  you  hold  me  to  it? 
ALICE.   Yes! 

HALE.   Then  I  must  break  it ! 
ALICE.   No !     I  refuse  to  free  you.     You  have 
given  two  years  of  your  life  to  your  country. 
It  must  give  me  the  rest.     It's  my  share!     It's 
my  right! 

[She  holds  out  her  two  arms  toward  him. 
HALE.    Still,  I  must  do  my  duty. 
ALICE.    [Her    hands    drop    to    her    side.]     And 
what  about  your  duty  to  me ! 


5i2  NATHAN  HALE 

HALE.  [Takes  one  of  her  hands,  and  holds  it  in 
his  own.]  Could  you  love  a  coward  ? 

ALICE.   Yes,  if  he  were  a  coward  for  my  sake. 

HALE.   I  don't  believe  you  ! 

ALICE.  It  is  true,  and  if  you  love  me,  you'll 
stay! 

HALE.   If  —  if  I  love  you ! 

ALICE.  Yes,  if  you  love  me !  Choose !  If 
you  go  on  this  mission,  it  is  the  end  of  our  love ! 
Choose ! 

[She  draws  away  her  hand. 

HALE.  There  can  be  no  such  choice,  —  it 
would  be  an  insult  to  believe  you. 

ALICE.  [In  tearful,  despairing  entreaty.]  You 
heard  them  —  it's  to  death  you're  going. 

HALE.   Perhaps  — 

ALICE.    [In  a  whisper.]    You  will  go? 

HALE.   I  must ! 


NATHAN  HALE  5i3 

ALICE.    [A  wild  cry.]     Then  I  hate -you! 
HALE.   And  I  love  you,  and  always  will,  so  long 
as  a  heart  beats  in  my  body. 

[He  wishes  to  embrace  her. 
ALICE.   No ! 

[She  draws  back  her  head,  her  eyes  blazing  ;  she  is 
momentarily  insane  with  fear  and  grief  and 
love.  HALE  bows  his  head  and  slowly  goes 
from  the  room.  ALICE,  with  a  faint,  heart- 
broken  cry,  sinks  limply  to  the  floor,  her  father 
hurrying  to  her,  as 

THE   CURTAIN   FALLS 


ACT  THE  THIRD 

THE  FIRST  SCENE.  September,  1776.  Long 
Island,  opposite  Norwalk.  The  WIDOW  CHI- 
CHESTER'S  Inn.  Time:  Night.  A  party  of 
British  officers  and  soldiers,  including  CUNNING 
HAM,  and  also  some  men  in  civilian's  dress,  are 
discovered  drinking,  the  WIDOW  serving  them. 
At  the  curtain,  they  are  singing  a  jolly  drinking 
song.  As  the  WIDOW  refills  each  mug,  each 
soldier  takes  some  slight  liberty  with  her,  pinches 
her  arm,  or  puts  his  arm  about  her  waist,  or 
kisses  her  wrist,  or  "nips"  her  cheek;  she  takes 
it  all  good-naturedly,  laughing,  and  sometimes 
slapping  them,  or  pushing  them  away,  and  join 
ing  them  in  their  song.  At  the  end  of  the  song 


NATHAN  HALE  515 

FITZROY  swaggers  in  by  the  door  on  the  Right. 
He    is    greeted    with    shouts    and    cheers.     The 
WIDOW  has  gone  behind  the  bar. 
CUNNINGHAM.   [Seated    on    the    corner    of   the 
table,  which  is  at  the  Left.}     Here's  a  man  for  a 
toast !     A  toast,  Major ! 

ALL  THE  SOLDIERS.  [Rapping  the  table  with  their 
mugs.]  A  toast !  A  toast ! 

FITZROY.  For  God's  sake,  give  me  stuff  to 
drink  it  in !  [Leaning  with  his  back  against  the 
bar.]  I've  a  hell's  thirst  in  my  throat. 

[The  WIDOW  is  ready,  as  he  speaks,  to  fill  his 
glass  across  the  bar.     As  she  is  filling  it,  he 
kisses  her  roughly,  and  she,  to  elude  him,  moves, 
and  thus  spills  half  the  liquor ;  he  tries  to  seize 
her,  but  she  pushes  him  o/. 
WIDOW.   Enough  of  that!     Kiss  the  liquor - 
it's  your  equal ! 


SI6  NATHAN  HALE 

[The  soldiers  are  laughing,  singing,  and  filling 

their  mugs. 

FITZROY.  Ain't  she  coy,  the  Widow  Chic! 
Well,  boys,  —  here  you  are  to  our  Royal  Master ! 
Long  life  to  King  George ! 

WIDOW  AND  ALL.  [Holding  up  their  glasses 
and  rising.]  Long  life  to  King  George!  Hip! 

Hip! 

[All  drink,  and  then  sit  down  again,  some  of  the 

men  going  on  with  the  song. 
FITZROY.   Here's  another ! 
CUNNINGHAM.   Give*  us  a  wench  this    time! 
ALL.   Yes,    a    wench!     Give    us    a    wench's 

name! 

FIRST  SOLDIER.  Yes,  if  you  can't  give  us  the 
wench  herself,  give  us  her  name! 

FITZROY.  [By  their  table]  What's  the  matter 
with  the  Widow  for  a  wench? 


NATHAN  HALE  517 

[All  laugh,  including  FITZROY,  who  jeers  derisively. 

WIDOW.  [Coming  to  FITZROY.]  You're  a  gal 
lant  soldier  to  poke  fun  at  the  woman  who  sup 
plies  you  with  drink !  I've  been  hugged  many 
a  time  by  your  betters ! 

[A  general  murmur  of  approval  from  the  soldiers, 
"Right  for  the  widdy !"  etc.,  etc. 

FITZROY.  [Bowing  low,  with  mock  courtesy,  and 
taking  his  hat  off  as  he  bows.]  I  ask  pardon  of 
your  Highness ! 

[All  guffaw.  She  makes  a  mocking  bob  curtsey, 
and  goes  back  to  the  bar. 

CUNNINGHAM.  Go  on  with  the  toast, — we're 
thirsty! 

ALL.  [Shouting  and  pounding  on  the  table.} 
Your  toast!  Your  toast! 

[As  they  shout,  HALE  enters,  from  the  Right,  very 
quietly,  and  goes  to  the  bar.  He  is  dressed  in  a 


Si8  NATHAN  HALE 

citizen's  dress  of  brown  cloth  and  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat.  No  notice  is  taken  of  him,  except 
by  the  WIDOW,  who  gives  him  a  mug  and  a 
drink,  and  watches  him  a  little  curiously 
through  the  scene. 

FITZROY.   Here's  death  to  George  Washington  ! 

ALL.   Hurrah  !     Death  to  George  Washington  ! 

[HALE  has  suddenly  fixed  his  eyes  on  FITZROY, 
and  shows  that  he  finds  something  familiar  in 
his  voice  and  manner,  and  is  trying  to  recall 
him.  HALE  has,  at  the  giving  of  this  toast, 
lost  control  of  his  muscles  for  a  moment,  — 
lost  hold  of  his  mug ;  —  it  drops,  and  the  liquor 
spills.  As  the  others  put  their  mugs  down, 
HALE  is  stooping  to  pick  up  his.  The  noise 
when  he  dropped  the  mug,  and  his  following 
actions,  bring  him  into  notice.  He  comes 
forward  as  FITZROY  goes  up  stage. 


NATHAN  HALE  519 

CUNNINGHAM.  Hello !    Who's  this  ? 

ALL.   Hello!    Hello! 

[FITZROY  doesn't  pay  much  attention;  he  is 
talking  with  the  WIDOW  at  the  bar. 

HALE.  Gentlemen,  I  am  an  American,  loyal 
to  the  King,  but  of  very  small  account  to  His 
Majesty. 

CUNNINGHAM.  [Tipping  back  his  chair.} 
What's  your  name? 

HALE.   Daniel  Beacon. 

FIRST  SOLDIER.   What's  your  business  here? 

HALE.  I'm  a  teacher,  but  the  Americans  drove 
me  out  of  my  school. 

CUNNINGHAM.  [Crossing  behind  HALE  to  the  bar, 
where  he  gets  another  drink .}  For  your  1  oyalty ,  eh  ? 

HALE.    Yes  —  for  my  loyalty. 

FIRST  SOLDIER.  [Bringing  his  fist  down  hard  on 
the  table.]  The  damned  rebels ! 


520  NATHAN  HALE 

HALE.  I  an.  in  hopes  I  can  find  a  position  of 
some  sort  over  here. 

WIDOW.  [Who  has  been  half  listening.]  Can't 
you  teach  these  soldiers  something  ?  Lord  knows 
they're  ignorant  enough! 

[Comes  out  from  behind  the  bar,  and  places  a  big 
flagon  of  wine  on  the  table.     Takes  away  the 
empty  flagon. 
FIRST  SOLDIER.   Widdy  !     Widdy ! 

[All  laugh.     FITZROY  joins  them  again. 
WIDOW.    [Behind    the    men     at     table. [     Well, 
have  you  heard  what  the  Major  here  says  —  you 
drunken,  lazy  sots? 

CUNNINGHAM.   What's  that? 
FITZROY.    General  Howe's  new  plans. 

[The  men  lean  over  the  table  to  hear. 
CUNNINGHAM.   Are  we  to  make  a  move  ? 
[FITZROY    nods    his    head   impressively    several 


NATHAN  HALE  521 

times.  The  men  look  at  each  other  and  nod 
their  heads. 

WIDOW.  [Poking  CUNNINGHAM  with  her  elbow.] 
Bad  news  for  you,  lazy !  Lord !  How  the 
fellow  does  love  the  rear  rank! 

CUNNINGHAM.   Shut  up  !    Let's  hear  the  news ! 

WIDOW.  You've  a  nice  way  of  speaking  to 
ladies ! 

CUNNINGHAM.    [Growls  in  disgust.]     Bah  ! 

FITZROY.  It  comes  straight  from  headquarteis  ! 
[The  men  gather  more  closely  about  FITZROY,  — • 
HALE  with  them,  with  calm,  pale  face,  showing  his 
suppressed  excitement.  FITZROY  continues  in  lower 
tones.]  General  Howe  is  going  to  force  his  way 
up  the  Hudson,  and  get  to  the  north  of  New 
York  Island. 

[An  instantaneous  expression  of  fear  crosses 
H ALE'S  face. 


522  NATHAN  HALE 

CUNNINGHAM.  [Grunts.]  Huh!  What's  that 
for? 

WIDOW.   Ninny ! 

FITZROY.   Use  your  brains ! 

WIDOW.    [Laughing.]     Use  his  what? 

FITZROY.  Hush,  Widow  Chic !  If  we  can  get 
to  the  north  of  New  York  Island  without  their 
being  warned,  we'll  catch  Washington,  and  cage 
what  is  practically  the  whole  American  army! 
They'll  have  to  surrender  or  fight  under  odds  they 
can  never  withstand. 

FIRST  SOLDIER.  Well !  What's  to  prevent  the 
scheme  ? 

FITZROY.  Nothing,  unless  the  Americans  should 
be  warned. 

CUNNINGHAM.  If  they  have  an  inkling  of  it, 
they  can  prevent  us  getting  up  the  Hudson,  eh? 

FITZROY.    Precisely.     In    any  case,   if    they're 


NATHAN  HALE  523 

warned  it  won't  be  tried,  because  Washington 
wouldn't  be  trapped,  and,  after  all,  Washington 
is  the  man  we  want  to  get  hold  of. 

CUNNINGHAM.  Wring  Washington's  damned 
neck,  and  we  won't  have  any  more  of  this  crying 
for  liberty ! 

FITZROY.  The  expedition  is  planned  for  to 
morrow  night,  and  there's  practically  no  chance 
for  him  to  be  warned  before  then. 

FIRST  SOLDIER.  Have  you  authority  for  this, 
sir? 

FITZROY.  The  orders  are  being  issued  nowr,  — 
it's  been  an  open  secret  among  the  men  for  two 
days.  Down  at  the  Ferry  Station  the  betting  is, 
this  business  finishes  the  rebellion.  [The  WIDOW, 
in  answer  to  a  signal  from  one  of  the  men,  comes 
out  from  behind  the  bar,  with  another  flagon  of 
wine.]  They're  giving  big  odds. 


524  NATHAN  HALE 

CUNNINGHAM.  Can't  finish  it  too  soon  to 
please  me !  [Rises  unsteadily.]  Fighting's  dan 
gerous  work. 

WIDOW.  [Filling  his  cup.]  That's  a  brave 
soldier  for  ye ! 

CUNNINGHAM.    Shut  up,  damn  you  ! 
WIDOW.    I'll  shut  when  I  please. 
CUNNINGHAM.   You'll  shut  when  I  say !    You 
old  hag! 
WIDOW.    "Hag!" 

[Slaps  his  face. 
CUNNINGHAM.   Hell! 

[Throws  the  wine  in  his  mug  in  her  face.     HALE, 
who  has  sprung  up,  knocks  his  mug  out  of  his 
hand  with  a  blow. 
HALE.   You  coward ! 

[All  the  soldiers  show  excitement.  Several  rise. 
WIDOW  goes  to  the  bar,  wiping  the  wine  from 
her  face;  she  is  crying,  b::t  soon  controls  herself. 


NATHAN  HALE  525 

CUNNINGHAM.  What  damn  business  is  it  of 
yours  ? 

HALE.  It's  every  man's  business  to  protect  a 
woman  from  a  brute  ! 

CUNNINGHAM.  Hear  the  pretty  teaching  gentle 
man  quote  from  his  Reader  ! 

FITZROY.  [Rises.  He  has  noticed  HALE  for  the 
first  time.}  Who  is  this? 

HALE.   Daniel  Beacon. 

CUNNINGHAM.  A  teacher  the  Rebs  have  driven 
out  of  New  York. 

FITZROY.  [Who  has  looked  at  HALE  curiously, 
turns  to  the  WIDOW.]  Have  you  ever  seen  him 
before  ? 

WIDOW.   Not  to  my  knowledge. 

FITZROY.  [At  the  bar  with  the  WIDOW.]  There's 
a  something  about  him  damn  familiar  to  me. 
I'm  suspicious !  Here  you,  Beacon,  how  do  we 
know  you're  not  some  Rebel  sneak? 


526  NATHAN  HALE 

ALL.    [Rising.]     What's  that? 

CUNNINGHAM.  That's  true  enough!  What's 
your  opinions  ? 

ALL.  Make  him  speak!  Make  him  speak! 
[A  general  movement  among  the  soldiers. 

FITZROY.  Yes,  if  you  are  a  loyalist,  give  us  a 
taste  of  your  sentiments  ! 

CUNNINGHAM.  A  toast  will  do  !  Give  us  a  toast ! 
[FITZROY  turns  aside  to  the  WIDOW. 

ALL.  [In  a  general  movement,  seizing  HALE,  they 
put  him  on  top  of  table.]  Come  on,  give  us  a  toast ! 

FITZROY.  [To  the  WTIDOW.]  I'm  suspicious  of 
this  fellow !  I've  seen  him  somewhere  before. 

[He  looks  at  HALE  attentively,  unable  to  recall  him. 

ALL.  Give  us  a  rouser !  There  you  are ! 
Now,  give  us  something  hot ! 

CUNNINGHAM.  A  toast  for  the  King,  and  then 
one  with  a  wench  in  it. 


NATHAN  HALE  527 

HALE.   Here  s    a    health    to    King    George! 
May  right  triumph,  and  wrong  suffer  defeat ! 
ALL.    Hip  !     Hip  !     To  the  King ! 
\AU   drink    except   HALE,   who    only   pretends, 
which    FITZROY,    who    is    watching    intently, 
notices. 

FITZROY.    [To  the  WIDOW.]     He  didn't  drink! 
I  am  sure  of  it ! 

WIDOW.   No  !     I  think  he  did  ! 
CUNNINGHAM.   Now  for  the  wench ! 
HALE.    To  the  Widow  Chic  —  God  bless  her  ! 
[All    laugh,    except    CUNNINGHAM,   who    says, 
"Bah !"  and  ostentatiously  spills  his  liquor  on 
the  floor. 

HALE    AND    ALL.   The    Widow    Chic!     Hip! 
Hip! 

[All  drink,  and  then  the  soldiers  take  HALE  down, 
and  all  talk  together,  slapping  each  other  on 


528  NATHAN  HALE 

the    back,    drinking,    starting    another    song, 
etc.     HALE  sits  by  the  table. 
FITZROY.    [To  the  WIDOW,  suddenly.}     By  God ! 
Now  I  know ! 

[In  a  voice  of  conviction  and  alarm. 
WIDOW.    [Frightened  by  his  voice  and  manner.] 
What? 

FITZROY.   Who  he  is!    He's  my  girl's  white- 
livered  lover,  one  named  Hale ! 
WIDOW.   Are  you  sure? 

FITZROY.  Almost,  —  and  if  I'm  right,  he's 
doing  spy's  work  here  !  Get  plenty  of  liquor.  If 
we  can  drug  him  he  may  disclose  himself !  Any 
way,  we'll  loosen  his  tongue ! 

[WIDOW  exits  at  back,  with  an  empty  flagon. 
FITZROY  joins  HALE  and  the  other  soldiers; 
as  he  does  so,  HALE  rises;  he  has  grown  uneasy 
under  FITZROY' s  scrutiny. 


NATHAN  HALE  529 

HALE.   Well,  gentlemen,  I  must  retire  for  the 
night.     I  haven't  a  soldier's  throat  for  wine. 

CUNNINGHAM.    Good!     So    much    the    better 
-  the  more  for  us  ! 

[HALE  goes  toward  the  door  at  back;    FITZROY, 
from  the  Right,  goes  at  the  same  time  to  meet 
him.     They  meet  at  the  door,  back. 
FITZROY.    Still,   won't  you   stay   and  have   a 
game  with  us? 

HALE.   I  think  you  must  excuse  me. 
FITZROY.    [Angry]     You're     afraid    to    stay ; 
you're  afraid  to  drink,  for  fear  we'll  find  out  the 
truth  as  to  who  you  are ! 

[The  WIDOW  comes  in  with  more  liquor,  puts  it 
on  the  table,  and  takes  the  empty  flagon  to  the 
bar. 

HALE.    [Laughs]     Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?     Very 
well,  then  I'll  stay ! 


53o  NATHAN  HALE 

[He  sits  again  at  the  table.  The  soldiers  start 
up  singing  "The  Three  Grenadiers"  They 
all  sing  and  drink. 

FITZROY.    [Interrupts    them.}     Stop    singing    a 
moment !     Fill  up,  everybody  !     I  have  a  bumper 
or  two  to  give  in  honor  of  our  guest  here !     [He 
stands  on  a  chair,  with  one  foot  on  the  table,  watch 
ing  HALE  closely.]    Here's  to  New  London,  Con 
necticut,  and  the  schoolhouse  there  ! 
CUNNINGHAM.   Damn  silly  toast ! 
HALE.   Never  you  mind,  it's  an  excuse  for  a 
drink ! 

[All  repeat  the  first  part  of  toast,  but  they  are 
getting  thick-tongued,  and  all  come  to  grief  over 
the  word  "Connecticut."  HALE  has  answered 
FITZROY'S  look  without  flinching,  but  has. 
managed  to  spill  his  liquor.  All  refill  their 
glasses,  singing. 


NATHAN  HALE  53i 

FITZROY.   Here's  another  for  you.     The  toast 

of  a  sly  wench,  and  a  prim  one,  who  flaunts  a 

damned   Yankee   lover   in   my   face!     But   I've 

kissed  her  lips  already,  and  before  I'm  through 

with  her,  if  she  won't  be  my  wife,  by  God,  I'll 

make  her  my  mistress !     Drink  to  my  success  with 

the  prettiest  maid  in  the  colonies  !  —  Alice  Adams  ! 

ALL.    To  Alice  Adams  !     Hip  !     Hip  ! 

[All  hold  up  their  glasses  with  loud  cries,  and  then 

drink.     HALE    again    manages    to    spill    his 

liquor,  and  pretends  to  drink.     FITZROY  jumps 

down  from  the  chair  and  table  to  beside  HALE. 

FITZROY.    [Loudly,    fiercely,    to     HALE.]     You 

didn't  drink!     I  watched  your  damned  throat, 

and  not  a  drop  went  down  it ! 

[General   movement   of  the   soldiers.     All   rise; 

excitement. 
ALL.   Show  us  your  cup  !     Show  us  your  cup ! 


532  NATHAN  HALE 

[HALE,  with  a  sneering  laugh,  holds  his  glass  above 
his  head,  and  turns  it  upside  down;  it  is  empty. 

CUNNINGHAM.  What's  the  matter  with  you? 
He  knows  good  liquor  when  he  tastes  it ! 

[All  laugh  drunkenly;  general  movement  again. 
All  retake  their  seats,  and  continue  singing. 
HALE  looks  defiantly  in  FITZROY'S  face,  and 
throws  his  cup  on  the  floor. 

HALE.    Good  night,  gentlemen ! 

ALL.    [Drunkenly.]     Good  night,   good  night! 

[HALE  goes  out  by  the  door  at  back,  shown  by  the 
WIDOW,  who  exits  with  him,  taking  a  candle. 
One  of  the  soldiers  is  asleep;  CUNNINGHAM  is 
on  the  floor;  another  wider  the  table;  they 
are  singing  in  a  sleepy,  drunken  way.  FITZ- 
ROY  writes  a  letter  rapidly  on  paper,  which  he 
finds  on  the  corner  of  the  bar.  He  finishes  it. 

CUNNINGHAM.    [On  the  floor,  his  head  and  arms 


NATHAN  HALE  533 

on  the  chair,  whining.]  I'm  thirsty !  Won't 
some  kind  person  please  give  me  a  drink? 

FITZROY.  [Kicking  him  with  his  foot  to  make 
him  get  up.]  Get  up !  Get  up,  I  say !  I  have 
an  errand  for  you  ! 

CUNNINGHAM.  [Rising,  steadies  himself  against 
the  chair]  What  is  it  ? 

FITZROY.    This  man  is  a  spy  — 

CUNNINGHAM.  Hurrah !  [Waves  the  arm  with 
which  he  was  steadying  himself,  and  almost  loses  his 
balance]  We'll  hang  him  up  to  the  first  tree ! 

FITZROY.  Wait !  WTe  must  prove  it  first,  and 
I  have  thought  of  a  plan.  Take  a  horse  and  ride 
like  hell  to  the  Ferry  Station.  Cross  to  New  York, 
and  give  this  letter  to  General  Howe.  He  will 
see  that  you  are  conducted  to  a  Colonel  Knowl- 
ton's  house,  with  a  letter  from  him  to  a  young 
lady  who  is  staying  there. 


534  NATHAN  HALE 

CUNNINGHAM.  [Who  is  a  little  drunk,  throwing 
back  his  shoulders  and  swaggering  a  bit.]  A  young 
lady!  Ah,  Major,  you've  hit  on  the  right  man 
for  your  business  this  time ! 

FITZROY.  Don't  interrupt,  you  drunken  fool, 
but  listen  to  what  I  am  telling  you  !  The  let 
ter  will  say  that  Captain  Nathan  Hale  is  here, 
wounded,  and  wishes  to  see  his  sweetheart,  Alice 
Adams,  before  he  dies.  If  you  are  questioned,  cor 
roborate  that,  you  understand  ?  A  young  man 
named  Hale  is  here,  wounded !  That's  who  the 
fellow  upstairs  is,  I'm  very  well  nigh  certain  !  The 
girl's  in  love  with  him  —  she'll  come  —  and  if  it  is 
Hale  we've  got  here,  we're  likely  to  know  it  —  if 
it  isn't,  well,  no  harm  done ! 

CUNNINGHAM.  Very  pretty !  Just  the  •  kind 
of  business  I  like. 

FITZROY.   Your  password  on  this  side  will  be 


NATHAN  HALE  535 

"Love."     Are  you  sober  enough   to  remember 
that? 

CUNNINGHAM.  [In  a  maudlin  voice.]  "Love ! " 
You  do  me  an  injustice,  Major ! 

[With  a  half -tipsy  effort  at  dignity. 

FITZROY.  Mind  you  don't  speak  my  name. 
You  come  at  General  Howe's  orders. 

CUNNINGHAM.  Diplomacy  was  always  my 
forte.  Fighting's  much  too  common  work ! 

FITZROY.  Go  on,  now.  There's  no  time  to  be 
lost !  I  want  the  girl  here  by  daybreak,  before 
the  dog's  up  and  off. 

CUNNINGHAM.  You  guarantee,  Major,  that  the 
girl's  pretty? 

FITZROY.  [Turning  on  him.]  What !  None  of 
that !  She's  my  property !  You'd  better  not 
forget  that.  No  poaching  on  my  preserves ! 

CUNNINGHAM.   [Doggedly.]     I  understand,  sir. 


536  NATHAN  HALE 

[Salutes  and  exits.     All  the  soldiers  are  asleep. 
The  WIDOW  comes  back.     FITZROY  turns  a 
chair  to  face  the  fire. 
FITZROY.    Bring  more  liquor. 

[He  throws  himself  into  the  chair. 

WIDOW.    More?  at  this  hour? 

FITZROY.    [Loosening     his     neck-gear.]       Yes, 

enough   to   last    till   morning.     [To   himself]     I 

warned  her  some  day  I  would  set  to  and  drink 

myself   mad   for   her!     And   the   time's    come! 

[The  stage  darkens. 

THE  SECOND  SCENE.  Outside  the  WIDOW  CHI- 
CHESTER'S.  Very  early  the  next  morning.  The 
scene  represents  the  front  of  the  house,  —  a  low, 
rambling  structure  of  gray  stone,  with  a  porch 
and  a  gabled  roof,  in  which  is  the  window  of 
FITZROY'S  bedroom.  There  is  a  well-sweep  on 
the  Left,  and  a  sign-post  beside  the  road.  There 


NATHAN   HALE  537 

are  trees  and  shrubs  on  each  side.  It  is  just  at 
sunrise.  As  dawn  begins,  a  cock  is  heard  crowing 
behind  the  house,  answered  by  a  second  cock,  and 
bv  others.  The  sun  rises  and  floods  the  scene. 

The  WIDOW  is  heard  unbolting  the  door,  and  comes 
out  on  to  the  porch,  carrying  the  mugs  of  the  night 
before,  which  she  has  washed  and  which  she 
places  on  a  bench  in  the  sun.  A  bugle  call  is 
heard,  and,  while  she  is  arranging  the  mugs, 
THREE  SOLDIERS  come  out  from  the  house. 
THE  THREE  SOLDIERS.  [On  the  porch,  saluting 

with  elaborate  politeness.]     Good  morning,  Widow 

Chic. 

WIDOW.    [Imitating    their    salute.}     God    bless 

you  and   King  George !     [The  soldiers  leave  the 

porch,  and  start  o/,  Right.]     Where  are  you  off  to, 

this  early? 

FIRST  SOLDIER.   [As  he  speaks,  all  three  stop  and 


538  NATHAN   HALE 

turn.]     On  picket  duty,  between  here  and  the 

Ferry  Station.     The  Major's  orders. 

[FITZROY  appears  in  the  upstairs  window,  open 
ing  the  shutters;  he  is  without  his  coat;  he 
is  dishevelled  and  bloated;  he  looks  as  if  he  had 
not  been  to  bed. 

FITZROY.  Here,  you  men !  No  loitering ! 
You've  no  time  to  lose !  Remember,  you're  to 
pass  no  one  but  the  girl,  Alice  Adams,  with 
Cunningham.  If  she's  brought  any  one  with 
her,  man,  woman,  or  child,  don't  let  'em  pass. 
THE  THREE  SOLDIERS.  [Salute.]  Yes,  sir. 

[They  start  to  go. 
FITZROY.   Burnham ! 
FIRST  SOLDIER.    [Salutes.]     Yes,  sir? 
FITZROY.   Have   you   your   bugle   with   you? 
FIRST  SOLDIER.   Yes,  sir. 
FITZROY.   Well,  you  change  with  Smith,  then ; 


NATHAN  HALE  539 

take  his  position  nearest  to  the  Ferry,  and  sound 
a  warning  the  moment  they  pass,  that  I  may  know 
here  they're  coming,  and  be  ready. 

FIRST  SOLDIER.   [Salutes.]     Yes,  sir. 

FITZROY.  That's  all.  [The  THREE  SOLDIERS 
salute  and  go  off  down  the  road,  Right.  FITZROY 
calls.]  Widow  Chic ! 

WIDOW.  [Coming  down  from  the  porch,  and 
looking  up  at  FITZROY.]  Yes,  Major. 

FITZROY.  We're  going  to  have  some  pretty 
sport  here,  presently. 

WIDOW.  I  hope  it's  no  harm  to  the  young 
teacher  who  took  my  part  last  night,  sir. 

FITZROY.  Damme!  You're  sweet  on  him, 
too !  He's  quite  a  lady-killer. 

[He  laughs  satirically,  and-  disappears  from  the 
window,  leaving  the  shutters  open.  HALE 
opens  the  door  and  comes  out  on  to  the  porch. 


540  NATHAN  HALE 

HALE.    Good  morning,  madam. 
WIDOW.    [With  a  curtsey.}     Good  morning,  sir ; 
the  Lord  bless  you  and  King  George! 

HALE.  Ahem !  By  the  way,  where  is  my 
horse?  Has  she  had  a  good  night? 

WIDOW.  She's  tethered  right  there,  sir. 
[Pointing  of  Right]  In  the  bushes.  It's  the 
best  I  could  do,  having  no  barn.  I  told  the  boy 
to  feed  her  the  first  thing,  sir. 

[HALE  goes  to  the  Right  as  she  speaks.     The 

WIDOW  stands  watching  him. 
HALE.  [Passes  out  of  sight  among  the  trees  and 
bushes.]  Ah !  Betsy,  old  girl !  [He  is  heard 
patting  the  horse.]  How  is  it,  eh?  Had  a  good 
night,  my  beauty?  Hungry?  Oh,  no,  you've 
had  your  breakfast,  haven't  you?  [He  is  heard 
patting  her  again.]  That's  good !  Be  ready  to 
start  in  a  few  minutes  now.  [He  comes  back  into 


NATHAN  HALE  541 

sight.]     Will  you  kindly  ask  the  boy  to  saddle 
her  at  once,  madam? 

[FITZROY  comes  out  on  to  the  porch. 
WIDOW.   Certainly,  sir. 

[Goes  into  house. 
FITZROY.    Good  morning. 
HALE.    Good  morning. 

FITZROY.  [Lea rang  against  a  pillar  of  the  porch.] 
I  have  a  pleasant  surprise  for  you. 

HALE.  [Suspicious,  walking  slowly  across  the 
stage  to  hide  his  nervousness.]  That  is  a  sufficient 
surprise  in  itself. 

FITZROY.  I  am  expecting  a  visitor  for  you, 
every  moment  now. 

HALE.  [Involuntarily  stops  a  second  and  turns.] 
A  visitor  ? 

[He  continues  walking. 
FITZROY.   For  you. 


542  NATHAN  HALE 

HALE.  [More  suspicious,  but  on  his  guard.] 
Who? 

FITZROY.  Alice  Adams.  [HALE  does  not  make 
any  movement,  but  he  cannot  avoid  an  expression  of 
mingled  fear  and  surprise  flashing  across  his  face 
—  it  is  so  slight  that,  though  FITZROY  does  see  it, 
he  cannot  be  sure  that  it  is  anything.  HALE  con 
tinues  to  walk,  returning  from  Left  to  Right.  FITZ 
ROY  comes  down  from  the  porch,  and  meets  HALE  as 
he  crosses.]  You  change  color! 

HALE.  [Quietly,  himself  again  completely]  Do 
I? 

[Walks  on  toward  Right. 

FITZROY.  [Looking  after  him.]  Yes  —  Nathan 
Hale! 

HALE.  [Walks  on  with  his  back  to  FITZROY.] 
Nathan  what  ? 

FITZROY.   Nathan   Hale!    And  you  are  here, 


NATHAN  HALE  543 

stealing  information  of  our  movements  for  the 
Rebel  Army  !     If  I  can  only  prove  it  — • 

[He  is  interrupted. 
HALE.    [Turning  sharply]     If  ! 
FITZROY.   And  I  will  prove  it ! 
HALE.    [Walking  towards   FITZROY,   now  from 
Right.]     Indeed!     How? 

FITZROY.  If  Cunningham  has  carried  out  my 
instructions,  he  has  gone  to  Alice  with  a  note 
from  General  Howe,  saying  that  Nathan  Hale 
is  wounded  and  dying  here,  and  wishes  to  see 
her !  I  think  that  will  bring  her  readily  enough 
-  in  which  case  we  ought  to  hear  them  pass  the 
sentinels,  any  moment  now ! 

[A  short  pause,  FITZROY  watching  for  the  effect 
on   HALE    of  every  word    he   speaks.     They 
stand  face  to  face. 
HALE.   And  who  is  Nathan  Hale  ? 


544  NATHAN  HALE 

FITZROY.  A  damned  rebel  fool  the  girl's 
sweet  on.  If  you  are  he,  and  she  is  brought 
face  to  face  with  you,  alive,  whom  she  fears 
to  find  dead,  she's  sure  to  make  some  sign  of 
recognition,  if  I  know  women,  and  that  sign  will 
cost  you  your  life  ! 

HALE.  It's  a  dastardly  trick  to  make  such  use 
of  a  woman! 

FITZROY.  All's  fair  in  love  and  war,  and  this 
is  a  case  of  both,  for  I  love  the  girl,  too. 

HALE.  And  if  I'm  not  —  [hesitates]  what's  his 
name  —  [FITZROY  sneers]  the  man  you  think  me  ? 

FITZROY.  Oh,  well,  then,  no  harm's  done. 
Meanwhile,  you  needn't  try  to  get  away  before 
she  comes.  I've  placed  pickets  all  about,  with 
orders  who's  to  pass  and  not. 

[The  WIDOW  comes  from  the  house,  carrying  a 
horse's  saddle. 


NATHAN  HALE  545 

WIDOW.  That  boy's  gone  to  the  village;  I 
will  have  to  saddle  your  horse  myself,  sir. 

[Going  toward  the  Right. 

FITZROY.  [Passing  behind  HALE  to  the  WIDOW.] 
I'm  hungry,  Widow  Chic!  Is  there  a  swallow 
of  coffee  and  a  bite  of  bread  ready?  I  haven't 
time  for  more. 

[With  a  meaning  look  toward  HALE. 

WIDOW.    Yes,  in  the  kitchen. 

FITZROY.    [Goes  on  to  the  porch,  and  there  turns 

on  the  steps  to  say  to  HALE  :]     Don't  be  alarmed. 

I  won't  miss  your  meeting  •    I  shall  be  on  hand. 

[Goes  into  the  house. 

HALE.    [Quickly  going  after  WIDOW.     In  half 
lowered    tones,  and  showing    suspense    and    sup 
pressed  excitement.]     Madam ! 
WIDOW.   Yes,  sir? 
HALE.    [Taking  her  by  the  arm,  kindly.]     Dear 


546  NATHAN   HALE 

madam,  you  thanked  me  last  night  for  striking 
that  dog  of  a  soldier  who  had  his  cup  raised 
against  you  — 

WIDOW.  Ah,  sir,  its  many  a  day  since  I've 
been  protected  by  any  man,  let  alone  a  handsome 
young  beau  like  you,  sir. 

[With  a  curtsey. 

HALE.  [Bows.]  Thank  you,  madam.  Will 
you  also  do  me  a  favor  in  return  ? 

WIDOW.   That  I  will,  sir. 

HALE.  Then  quick,  leave  the  saddle  by  the 
horse  to  arrange  on  your  return,  and  go  a  bit 
down  the  road  toward  the  Ferry  Station.  Wait 
there !  When  you  see  Cunningham  — 

WIDOW.   The  brute  who  wanted  to  strike  me  ? 

HALE.  Yes !  —  riding  along  with  a  girl,  make 
some  motion  to  her,  wave  your  hand  or  ker 
chief  or  something.  Do  anything  to  attract  her 


NATHAN  HALE  547 

attention,  if  possible,  without  attracting  his, 
and  at  the  same  time  place  your  fingers  on  your 
lips  —  so !  [Showing  her.}  You  don't  under 
stand,  and  neither  will  she,  perhaps !  But  a 
life  is  at  stake,  and  it's  a  chance,  and  my  only 
one  — 

WIDOW.   Wave  my  hand,  and  do  so? 
HALE.   Yes.     She  is  the  girl  I  love,  madam, 
and  I  ask  you  to  do  this  for  me! 
WIDOW.   And,  sir,  I  will. 

[HALE  starts,  and  listens  as  if  he  heard  something. 
HALE.  Quick!  Run,  for  the  love  of  God,  or 
you  may  be  too  late !  [The  WIDOW  hurries  off, 
Right.  The  saddle  is  heard  falling  in  the  bushes 
where  she  throws  it.  HALE  shakes  his  head  doubt 
fully  as  to  the  success  of  his  plan;  he  goes 
to  the  Right  and  speaks  to  the  horse.}  Betty! 
Ah !  Bless  your  heart !  Be  ready,  old  girl. 


548  NATHAN  HALE 

I  may  need  you  soon,  to  race  away  from  death 

with  !     Be  ready,  old  girl. 

[During  the  end  of  this  speech,  FITZROY  comes 
out  on  to  the  porch,  carrying  a  coffee  bowl  in 
his  hand,  from  which  he  drinks.  He  doesn-t 
hear  MALE'S  words. 

FITZROY.  That's  a  good  horse  of  yours,  Mr. 
Beacon.  [Drinks  the  coffee.  HALE  starts  very 
slightly  and  turns,  looks  scornfully  at  FITZROY,  and 
crosses  stage  slowly.}  Our  friends  are  late!  [He 
starts  to  drink  again,  but  just  as  the  bowl  touches 
his  lips,  a  far-off  bugle  call  of  warning  is  heard. 
Both  HALE  and  FITZROY  start,  and  stand  still, 
except  that  very  slowly  the  hand  with  the  bowl 
sinks  down  from  FITZROY'S  lips,  as  the  head  very 
slowly  lifts,  his  eyes  wide  open,  a  smile  of  expectant 
triumph  on  his  face.  HALE  is  at  the  Left,  FITZROY 
is  on  the  porch  steps,  as  the  bugle  stops.  FITZROY 


NATHAN  HALE  549 

hurls  away  the  bowl,  from  which  some  co/ee  is 
spilled,  and  which  is  broken  as  it  strikes,  while  he 
cries  out:]  They're  coming  ! 

[He  comes  down  the  steps. 

SECOND  PICKET'S  VOICE.    [Off  stage,  Right,  at  a 
far  distance.}     Who  goes  there  ? 

CUNNINGHAM.   [Faro/.]    Charles  Cunningham, 
with  Miss  Alice  Adams,  on  private  business. 
SECOND  PICKET.   Your  password? 
CUNNINGHAM.    [In  a  sneering  voice  ]     "Love!" 
[FITZROY   listens   till   CUNNINGHAM'S   reply  is 
finished;  then  turns  quickly  to  look  at  HALE, 
whose  face  shows  nothing.     The  sound  of  the 
horse's    hoofs    is    heard   coming   nearer   and 
nearer.     After    a   few    seconds,    the    THIRD 
PICKET  is  heard. 

THIRD  PICKET.    [Off  stage  at  a  distance. [     Who 
goes  there? 


55o  NATHAN  HALE 

CUNNINGHAM.    [Nearer.]    Charles  Cunningham, 
with  Miss  Alice  Adams,  on  private  business. 
THIRD  PICKET.   Your  password  ? 
CUNNINGHAM.    [Again    in    a    sneering    wice.] 
"Love!"     [The   horse's   hoofs   are   heard   coming 
closer,  and  then  stop.     There  is  the  noise  of  dis 
mounting  in  the  bushes.}    Here !  just  tie  these  safe ! 
Come  along  now,  Miss  ! 
[CUNNINGHAM    and    ALICE    come    on,    Right. 

ALICE'S  eyes  fall  first  on  FITZROY. 
ALICE.    You  here ! 

[FITZROY  doesn't  answer,  but,  turning  his  face 
and  eyes  to  HALE,  directs  with  his  hand  ALICE'S 
gaze  in  that  direction,  and  then  he  quickly  turns 
*his  eyes  upon  ALICE,  to  watch  her  face.  She 
very  slowly  follows  his  glance  to  HALE,  rests  her 
eyes  on  his  a  full  minute  without  making  any 
recognition,  and  then  turns  to  CUNNINGHAM. 


NATHAN  HALE  551 

ALICE.  Where  is  Captain  Hale?  Why  don't 
you  take  me  to  him  at- once? 

FITZROY.  [In  a  rage.]  She's  been  warned ! 
Who's  spoiled  my  plot  ? 

[Going  menacingly  to  CUNNINGHAM.  At  this  ac 
tion,  there  is  one  moment  when,  unseen,  ALICE 
and  NATHAN'S  eyes  can  seek  each  other,  but  only 
for  a  moment. 

CUNNINGHAM.  Not  I !  It  has  spoiled  my  fun, 
too. 

FITZROY.  [To  ALICE.]  That's  your  lover,  and 
you  know  it !  I  only  saw  him  a  few  moments 
in  his  schoolhouse,  but  I  can't  have  so  bad  a 
memory  for  a  face  as  all  that. 

[WIDOW  is  heard  singing  "  The  Three  Grenadiers" 
in  the  bushes  at  Right,  where  she  is  tying  the 
horses. 
ALICE.    They    told    me    Captain    Hale    was 


552  NATHAN  HALE 

here,    and    dying !     Who   played   this   trick   on 

me? 

[Looking  blankly  at  HALE,  and  then  at  CUN 
NINGHAM  and  FITZROY. 

FITZROY.   Well,  isn't  he  here? 

[Motioning  to  HALE. 

ALICE.  [To  FITZROY.]  It  was  you,  of  course! 
You  who  have  forced  me  to  this  ride  through 
the  night,  half  dead  with  fear,  and  all  for  a  lie ! 
Well,  mark  my  word,  you  will  lose  your  commis 
sion  for  this !  Rebels  or  no  rebels,  we  have  our 
rights  as  human  beings,  and  General  Howe  is  a 
gentleman  who  will  be  the  first  to  punish  a 
trick  like  you  have  played  on  a  woman ! 

FITZROY.  [Going  to  ALICE.]  We'll  see  what 
General  Howe  will  do  when  I  give  into  his  hands 
a  man  who  has  been  stealing  information  of  our 
movements  for  the  Rebel  Army,  —  who  has  been 


NATHAN  HALE  553 

working  for  the  destruction  of  the  King's  men,  - 
and  I  will  do  this  yet !  You've  been  warned  by 
some  one !  I'll  question  the  pickets,  and  if  I 
find  one  of  them  the  traitor  —  [to  HALE,  crossing 
before  ALICE]  he'll  hang  ahead  of  you  to  let  the 
Devil  know  you're  coming.  [^4  look  at  HALE,  then 
he  recrosses  before  ALICE  to  CUNNINGHAM.]  There 
are  men  picketed  all  about  —  you  need  not 
hang  around  unless  you  want  to.  [Aside  to 
CUNNINGHAM.]  I  shall  steal  back  behind  the 
house,  and  wratch  them  from  inside;  make 
some  excuse  to  go  in,  too.  I  want  you  ready 
by  the  door.  [He  goes  off,  Right. 

ALICE.  [To  CUNNINGHAM,  going  toward  him.] 
Aren't  you  going  to  take  me  back  ? 

CUNNINGHAM.  Well,  not  just  this  minute, 
Mistress.  I've  a  hankering  for  some  breakfast, 
when  the  Widow  Chic  comes  back. 


554  NATHAN  HALE 

[He  crosses  behind  her,  strolls  about  in  earshot 
and  out,  keeping  an  eye  on  them  every  other 
moment.  He  goes  first  to  the  old  well,  at  the 
Left. 

HALE.  [To  ALICE.]  You  were  brought  here, 
Mistress  — ? 

ALICE.    [With  a  curtsey]    Adams,  sir. 

HALE.  Adams,  to  see  Captain  Hale?  I  used 
to  know  him;  he  taught  the  same  school  with 
me.  [He  adds  quickly  in  a  low  voice,  CUNNINGHAM 
being  out  of  hearing.]  A  woman  warned  you? 

ALICE.  [Low,  quickly.]  Yes !  [Then  aloud,  in 
a  conventional  voice,  as  CUNNINGHAM  moves] 
I  was  his  scholar  once. 

HALE.   You  were? 

ALICE.  Yes,  in  many  things,  but  most  of 
all  in  —  love  ! 

[Added  in  an  undertone.     In  their  conversation. 


NATHAN  HALE  555 

they  keep  a  constant  lookout  about  them,  and, 
when  they  see  themselves  out  of  CUNNINGHAM'S 
hearing,  they  drop  their  voices  a  little,  and 
speak  seriously.  In  ALICE'S  speech  just 
now,  for  instance,  she  adds  the  word  "love" 
in  a  voice  full  of  emotion  and  sentiment, 
seeing  CUNNINGHAM  is  for  the  moment  out  of 
hearing. 

HALE.  [Softly,  lovingly.}  Alice!  [CUNNING 
HAM  approaches.]  You  found  him  a  good  teacher  ? 

[CUNNINGHAM  goes  on  to  the  porch,  and  opens 
the  top  part  of  the  door ;  he  leans  on  lower 
part,  looking  in;  he  is  in  earshot  of  the  two, 
which  they  perceive. 

ALICE.   Yes,  in  love  only  too  proficient ! 

HALE.  Oh,  well  —  that  was  because,  of  course, 
he  was  enamoured  desperately  of  you  ! 

ALICE.    [Coquettishly.]     He  pretended  so! 


556  NATHAN  HALE 

HALE.  [Seriously.]  And  didn't  you  believe 
him? 

ALICE.   Oh,  I  did,  at  first  - 

HALE.  [With  difficulty  keeping  the  anxiety  out 
of  his  voice.]  Only  at  first!  [CUNNINGHAM 
passes  on  out  of  hearing.]  No  —  no  —  Alice,  you 
didn't  really  doubt  me  ! 

[ALICE  cannot  answer  because  the  WIDOW, 
singing,  enters  at  this  moment,  and  CUNNING 
HAM  draws  near  again. 

WIDOW.  [To  CUNNINGHAM.]  Well,  you  brute, 
your  horses  are  well  pastured  ! 

CUNNINGHAM.  I  give  you  damns  for  thanks ! 
Have  you  food  for  a  brave  soldier  in  the  house? 

WIDOW.  No,  but  I've  scraps  for  a  coward  who 
strikes  women.  Come  in  and  eat,  if  you  wish. 
I  don't  let  starve  even  dogs !  [Enters  the  house. 

CUNNINGHAM.    Seeing  you  press  me  ! 


NATHAN  HALE  557 

[Laughing,  follows  her  in.  Since  the  WIDOW'S 
entrance,  FITZROY  has  appeared  cautiously 
in  the  second-story  window,  and,  leaning  his 
arm  out  softly,  has  caught  hold  of  the  shutters 
and  bowed  them  shut.  He  watches  behind  them. 
ALICE  sits  on  the  porch  steps,  pretending  to  be 
bored,  and  HALE  moves  about  with  a/ected 
nonchalance.  The  moment  they  are  appar 
ently  alone  on  the  scene,  they  approach  each 
other,  but  cautiously. 

HALE.  [Anxious.]  Did  this  Hale  prove  him 
self  unworthy  of  you  by  some  cowardly  action? 
Had  you  any  reason  to  doubt  his  passion? 

ALICE.  He  broke  his  word  to  me ;  that  made 
me  doubt  his  love. 

HALE.   But  you  are  still  betrothed  to  him? 
ALICE.    Oh,  no  !     When  he  broke  faith,  then  I 
broke  troth. 


558  NATHAN  HALE 

HALE.  Yet  you  came  this  journey  here  to  see 
him. 

ALICE.  Out  of  pity — they  told  me  he  was  dying. 

HALE.  [Low  voice.]  Are  you  in  earnest  ?  Was 
it  pity,  or  was  it  love  ? 

ALICE.  [With  a  frightened  look  about  her, 
ignores  his  question.]  I  can't  imagine  how  they 
took  you  for  the  other  gentleman  —  Captain 
Hale  is  taller ;  you,  I  think,  are  short. 

HALE.   [A  little  sensitive.]     Short? 

ALICE.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings,  but 
it's  only  fair  to  you,  sir,  in  this  dilemma,  to  be 
frank.  It  may  save  your  life ! 

HALE.  [Distressed,  anxious,  lest  she  loves  him  no 
longer.]  You  came  to  Captain  Hale,  then,  only 
out  of  pity  ? 

ALICE.  Out  of  pity,  yes!  And  now  "out  of 
pity,"  I  hope  this  ruffian  will  take  me  back. 


NATHAN  HALE  559 

HALE.  [In  a  low  voice,  his  passion  threatening  to 
overmaster  him.]  No,  no,  say  it  isn't  true !  You 
love  me  still  ? 

ALICE.  [In  a  low  voice.]  Be  careful,  the  very 
trees  have  ears ! 

HALE.  If  they  have  hearts  of  wood,  they'll 
break  to  hear  you ! 

[Leaning  over  her. 

ALICE.  [Loud  voice,  frightened,  for  fear  they  are 
being  overheard.]  Let  me  pass,  sir  ! 

HALE.  [Desperate,  in  a  low  voice  full  of  passion 
ate  love.]  No !  Look !  We're  alone !  They're 
at  their  breakfast  —  you  drive  me  mad  —  only  let 
me  know  the  truth  !  You  love  me  ? 

ALICE.   Yes ! 

HALE.  [His  pent-up  passion  mastering  him.] 
My  darling  !  For  just  one  moment ! 

[Opening  his  arms,  she  goes  into  them,  and  as 


S6o  NATHAN  HALE 

they  embrace,  FITZROY  throws  open  the  shutters 
of  his  window  and,  leaning  out,  cries : 
FITZROY.   I  arrest  you,  Nathan  Hale  - 
ALICE.    [Cries  out.]     My  God  ! 
FITZROY.  —  In  the  name  of  the  King,  for  a  spy ! 
[At  the  moment  that  he  has  thrown   open  the 
shutters  with  a  bang,  CUNNINGHAM  has  thrown 
open  the  door  below,  and  stands  on  the  porch, 
levelling  his  musket  at  HALE. 
ALICE.    [Cries  out.]     Nathan ! 
FITZROY.   [Calls  down  to  CUNNINGHAM.]    If  he 
attempts  to  escape,  fire.     [Climbing  out  of  the  win 
dow  on  to  the  roof  of  the  porch,  and  flinging  him 
self  of  by  one  of  t!;e  pillars.]     At  last !     I've  won  ! 
Before  to-day's  sun  sets,  you  will  be  hanged  to  a 
tree  out  yonder,  Nathan  Hale,  and  the  birds  can 
come  and  peck  out  the  love  for  her  in  your  dead 
heart.     For  she'll  be  mine ! 

[ALICE  starts,  frightened,  with  a  low  gasp. 


NATHAN  HALE  561 

HALE.   Yours! 

FITZROY.  Mine  !  [To  ALICE.]  You  remember 
I  told  you  once,  sometime  I'd  make  up  my  mind 
I'd  waited  long  enough  for  you?  Well,  so  help 
me  God,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  that  last  night ! 
[To  HALE.]  You  leave  her  behind !  But  you 
leave  her  in  my  arms  I 

[Seizing  ALICE  in  his  arms,  and  forcing  her  into 

an  embrace. 
ALICE.   You  brute ! 

[Fighting  in  his  arms.  CUNNINGHAM  has  put 
his  hand  on  HALE'S  shoulder  to  keep  him  from 
going  to  her  rescue.  HALE  has  shown,  by  the 
movement  of  his  eyes,  that  he  is  taking  in  the 
situation,  the  places  of  every  one,  etc. 
FITZROY.  Look! 

[And  he  bends  ALICE'S  head  back  upon  his  shoul 
der  to  kiss  her  on  the  lips. 
HALE.   Blackguard! 


562  NATHAN  HALE 

[With  a  blow  of  kis  right  arm,  he  knocks  CUNNING 
HAM  on  the  head,  who,  falling,  hits  his  head 
against  the  pillar  of  the  porch,  and  is  stunned. 
Meanwhile,  the  moment  he  has  hit  CUNNING 
HAM,  HALE  has  sprung  upon  FITZROY,  and, 
with  one  hand  over  his  mouth,  has  bent  his  head 
back  with  the  other,  until  he  has  released  ALICE. 
HALE  then  throws  FITZROY  down,  and,  seizing 
ALICE  about  the  waist,  dashes  of  with  her  to 
the  Right,  where  his  horse  is.  FITZROY  rises 
and  runs  to  CUNNINGHAM,  kicks  him  to  get  his 
gun,  which  has  fallen  under  him. 
FITZROY.  [Beside  himself  with  rage.}  Get  up ! 
Get  up  !  You  fool ! 

[Horse's  hoofs  heard  starting  of. 
THIRD  PICKET'S  VOICE.   [Off  stage.]    Who  goes 
there? 

FITZROY.    [Stops,  looks  up,  and  gives  a  trium- 


NATHAN  HALE  563 

phant  cry]     Ah  !     The  picket !    They're  caught ! 
They're  caught ! 

HALE.  Returning,  with  Alice  Adams,  on 
private  business. 

PICKET.   The  password. 
HALE.   "Love!" 

FITZROY.  Damnation!  Of  course  he  heard! 
[Runs  of,  Right,  yelling]  Fire  on  them !  Fire ! 
For  God's  sake,  fire ! 

[A  shot  is  heard,  followed  by  a  loud,  defiant 
laugh  from  HALE,  and  an  echoed  "Love,"  as 
the  clatter  of  horse's  hoofs  dies  away,  and 

THE   CURTAIN   FALLS 


564  NATHAN  HALE 

A  SECOND  ENDING  TO  THE  ACT.  It  was  found,  on 
performing  the  Play,  that  this  ending  of  the  Act, 
in  which  H ALE'S  pent-up  passion  overcame  his 
control  and  made  him  expose  himself  to  FITZROY, 
did  not,  as  the  theatrical  phrase  is,  "  carry  over 
the  footlights"  In  consequence,  a  new  ending 
of  the  Act  was  devised,  which  proved  to  be  more 
effective,  theatrically.  In  this  second  ending, 
JASPER  follows  his  mistress,  and,  after  ALICE 
has  failed  to  recognize  NATHAN,  FITZROY, 
concealed  upstairs,  hears  the  servant  being  stopped 
and  questioned  by  the  pickets.  The  MAJOR 
orders  JASPER  brought  into  the  presence  of  him 
self,  ALICE,  and  HALE,  and  this  time  his  scheme 
is  successful;  for  JASPER,  unwarned,  recognizes 
HALE,  and  from  the  recognition,  the  remainder  of 
the  Act  is  the  same. 


ACT  THE  FOURTH 

THE  FIRST  SCENE.  Saturday  night,  September  21, 
1776.  The  tent  of  a  British  officer.  Above  the 
tent  is  seen  the  deep  blue  sky,  full  of  stars  ;  on  each 
side  are  trees  and  bushes.  There  is,  every  little 
while,  the  noise  of  a  company  of  soldiers  encamped 
close  by.  HALE  is  seated  at  a  table,  inside  the  tent, 
writing  letters  by  candle-light.  CUNNINGHAM  is 
outside  the  tent,  on  guard.  CUNNINGHAM'S 
head  is  plastered,  where  he  struck  it  in  falling, 
when  HALE  felled  him.  CUNNINGHAM  paces 
slowly  up  and  down. 

CUNNINGHAM.   Writing  the  history  of  your  life  ? 
HALE.    [Writing,   without   looking   up.}     I    am 

writing  a  letter  to  my  mother  and  sister. 
565 


566  NATHAN  HALE 

CUNNINGHAM.  Yankees,  like  yourself,  I  pre 
sume  ! 

HALE.    [Still  writing.]     Please  God ! 

CUNNINGHAM.  I  suppose  yoirre  making  a 
pretty  story  out  of  your  capture ! 

HALE.  No,  I'm  only  telling  the  truth  —  that  I 
got  the  best  of  two  pretty  big  men,  yourself  and 
Fitzroy. 

[Half  smiling.  This  is  said,  not  at  all  in  the 
spirit  of  boasting,  but  only  to  ridicule  CUN 
NINGHAM. 

CUNNINGHAM.  Yes,  and  don't  forget  to  add 
how  you  were  captured  by  the  picket,  close  to  the 
Ferry  Station. 

HALE.  [Looks  up.]  Yes,  because,  hearing  Fitz- 
roy's  cries,  the  picket  threatened,  if  I  didn't  stop, 
he'd  shoot  the  girl  with  me. 

CUNNINGHAM.   It  was  a  narrow  escape  for  us ! 


NATHAN  HALE  567 

HALE.  [With  a  half -smile.]  But  too  broad  for 
me !  [Continues  his  writing. 

CUNNINGHAM.   What  else  are  you  saying? 

HALE.  [Writing.]  Oh,  that  I  was  taken  before 
General  Howe,  who  probably  only  does  what 
he  feels  his  duty,  although  he  condemns  me 
without  a  trial ! 

CUNNINGHAM.  Yes,  but  with  plenty  of  evidence 
against  you,  thanks  to  us  witnesses,  and  the  papers 
found  in  your  shoes,  too ! 

HALE.  [Smiling  a  little.]  True,  I  walked  on 
very  slippery  ground,  didn't  I?  [He  comes  out 
of  the  tent.]  However,  you  didn't  find  all  the 
papers. 

CUNNINGHAM.  [Surprised,  changes  his  position.] 
What  do  you  mean? 

HALE.  Oh,  the  men  were  so  taken  up  with  me, 
they  didn't  see  my  friend  and  confederate,  Hemp- 


568  NATHAN  HALE 

stead,  who  was  waiting  by  the  Ferry  Station ! 
I  don't  mind  telling  you,  now  he  is  out  of  danger, 
the  only  paper  that  was  of  immediate  importance 
-  the  plan  of  General  Howe's  attack  on  Washing 
ton  and  upper  New  York  —  wrapped  nicely  in  a 
leather  pouch,  —  I  dropped  in  the  bushes  by  the 
roadside  when  I  was  arrested.  [He  walks  a  few 
steps  toward  CUNNINGHAM,  and  stops.  He  adds 
cunningly,  trying  to  get  information  out  of  him :] 
That's  why  the  attempt  to  force  the  Hudson  was 
a  failure ! 

CUNNINGHAM.  [On  his  guard.]  Oh !  Was  there 
such  an  attempt? 

HALE.  [Goes  nearer  CUNNINGHAM,  desperately 
anxious  to  know.}  Wasn't  there? 

CUNNINGHAM.  [Sneers.]  Don't  you  wish  you 
knew !  Go  on  —  make  haste  with  your  scrib 
bling  !  [Crosses  before  HALE  to  the  other  side. 


NATHAN  HALE  569 

HALE.  [Reentering  the  tent,  and  taking  up  his 
letter.]  I  have  finished.  I  do  not  find  your 
presence  inspiring.  Have  you  a  knife? 

CUNNINGHAM.   Yes. 

HALE.   Will  you  lend  it  me  ? 

CUNNINGHAM.   No  !    What  do  you  want  it  for  ? 

HALE.  My  mother  —  [his  voice  breaks;  he 
turns  his  back  to  CUNNINGHAM]  poor  little 
woman  —  wants  a  bit  of  my  hair.  [He  controls 
himself.]  Lend  me  your  knife,  that  I  may  send  it 
to  her. 

CUNNINGHAM.  [Coming  to  HALE.]  Yes  !  That's 
a  fine  dodge !  And  have  you  cut  your  throat 
and  cheat  the  gallows !  [Getting  out  his  knife] 
I'll  cut  it  off  for  you,  shall  I? 

HALE.   Thank  you. 

[Holding  his  head  ready,  and,  with  his  right  hand, 
choosing  a  lock. 


S7o  NATHAN  HALE 

CUNNINGHAM.  [Cuts  it  of  roughly.]  There! 

[Gives  it  to  him. 

HALE.  [Puts  the  hair  in  the  letter;  starts  to  fold 
it.]  May  I  have  a  chaplain  attend  me? 

CUNNINGHAM.   A  what? 

HALE.   A  minister  —  a  preacher  ! 

CUNNINGHAM.  No!  Give  me  your  letter,  if 
it's  finished. 

[HALE  comes  out  from  the  tent  and  hands  him  the 
letter.  CUNNINGHAM  opens  the  letter. 

HALE.   How  dare  you  open  that ! 

CUNNINGHAM.   [Sneeringly .}    How  "dare"  I? 

HALE.   You  shall  not  read  it ! 

CUNNINGHAM.   Shan't  I ! 

HALE.  [Coming  nearer  CUNNINGHAM.]  No! 
That  letter  is  my  good-by  to  my  mother,  who, 
for  the  sake  of  my  country,  I  have  robbed  of  her 
"boy."  It  is  sacred  to  her  eyes  only ! 


NATHAN  HALE  571 

CUNNINGHAM.   Is  it !      [Spreads  it  open  to  read. 

HALE.  [Springs  toward  him,  his  hand  on  the 
letter.]  Stop  !  There's  the  mark  of  one  blow  I've 
given  you  on  your  forehead  now.  Dare  to  read 
that  letter,  and  I'll  keep  it  company  with  another  ! 
I  mean  it !  I'm  not  afraid,  with  death  waiting  for 
me  outside  in  the  orchard ! 

CUNNINGHAM.  Either  I  read  it,  or  it  isn't  sent. 
Take  your  choice ! 

[HALE  looks  at  CUNNINGHAM  a  moment,  —  a 
look  of  disgust. 

HALE.  [Drops  CUNNINGHAM'S  wrist.}  Read 
it !  [He  walks  up  and  down  as  CUNNINGHAM  reads. 
He  goes  to  Right;  speaks  to  some  one  outside.} 
Sentinel ! 

SENTINEL.  [Who  speaks  with  a  strong  Irish 
accent,  outside.}  Yis,  surr  ! 

[The  SENTINEL  comes  on. 


572  NATHAN  HALE 

HALE.  Ask  the  men  to  sing  something,  will 
you? 

SENTINEL.  They  haven't  sung  to-night,  purr- 
posely,  surr,  fearing  it  would  disturb  you. 

HALE.  Thank  them  for  me,  and  say  I'd  like  a 
song  !  Something  gay  ! 

[His  voice  breaks  on  the  word  "gay" 

SENTINEL.  Yis,  surr,  but  I'm  afraid  the  soldiers 
haven't  much  spirits  to-night.  They're  regretting 
the  woruk  of  sunrise,  surf. 

HALE.  Well  —  let  them  sing  anything,  only 
beg  them  sing  —  till  sunrise  ! 

SENTINEL.   Yis,  surr. 

[HALE  turns,  CUNNINGHAM  has  finished  reading 
letter ;  he  has  grown  furious  as  he  reads. 
The  SENTINEL  exits. 

CUNNINGHAM.  Hell  fires !  Do  you  think  I'll 
let  these  damned  heroics  be  read  by  the 


NATHAN  HALE  573 

Americans  ?  By  our  Lady,  they  shall  never  know 
through  me  they  had  a  rebel  amongst  them  with 
such  a  spirit ! 

[He  tears  the  letter  into  pieces  before  HALE.     The 
soldiers  are  heard  singing,   outside,   "Drink 
to  me  only  with  thine  eyes." 
HALE.   You  cur !     Not  to  send  a  dying  man's 
love  home ! 

[Goes  into  the  tent. 

CUNNINGHAM.   I'll  make  a  coward  of  you  yet, 
damn  you ! 

HALE.   You  mean  you'll  do  your  best  to  make 
me  seem  one !     God  knows,  the  worst  I  have  to 
suffer  is  to  spend  my  last  hours  with  a  brute  like 
you.     How  can  a  man  give  his  thoughts  to  Heaven 
with  the  Devil  standing  by  and  spitting  in  his  face  ! 
[The  SENTINEL  comes  on  and  salutes.     CUNNING 
HAM  speaks  with  him. 


574  NATHAN  HALE 

CUNNINGHAM.  Hale,  you  have  visitors.  Will 
you  see  them? 

HALE.   Who  are  they? 

CUNNINGHAM.  [To  the  SENTINEL.]  Say  he  re 
fuses  to  see  them. 

HALE.  That's  a  lie !  I  haven't  refused !  Who 
are  they? 

CUNNINGHAM.   They  come  from  General  Howe ! 

HALE.   Fitzroy  !     I  refuse  to  receive  him. 

CUNNINGHAM.  [To  the  SENTINEL.]  Say  he  re 
fuses  to  receive  them. 

SENTINEL.  But  it's  not  Major  Fitzroy,  surr; 
it's  a  lady. 

HALE.   What !  [On  his  guard  now. 

CUNNINGHAM.  [To  the  SENTINEL.]  Damn  you, 
hold  your  tongue ! 

SENTINEL.  I  was  told  to  ansurr  all  the 
prisoner's  quistions,  surr. 


NATHAN  HALE  575 

HALE.  [To  CUNNINGHAM,  coming  out  of  the 
tent.]  You'd  cheat  me  of  every  comfort,  would 
you?  [To  SENTINEL.]  Is  the  lady  young  or  — 

SENTINEL.    [Interrupting.]    Young,  surr. 

HALE.  [U-nder  his  breath,  scarcely  daring  to 
believe  himself  or  the  soldier,  yet  hoping.]  Alice ! 
[To  the  SENTINEL.]  Is  she  alone? 

SENTINEL.   No,  surr,  a  maid  and  a  young  man. 

HALE.    [Again  under  his  breath.]     Tom  ! 

SENTINEL.  [Continues.]  The  young  gintleman 
wishes  to  see  you  for  a  moment  fust,  alone. 

HALE.   Quickly  !     Show  him  in  ! 

SENTINEL.   Yis,  surr.  [He  exits. 

HALE.  [To  CUNNINGHAM.]  What  a  dog's 
heart  you  must  have  to  wish  to  keep  even  this 
from  me ! 

CUNNINGHAM.  Say  what  you  like,  one  thing 
is  true  :  I'm  here  on  guard,  and  any  comfort  that 


576  NATHAN  HALE 

you  have  with  your  sweetheart  must  be  in  my 
presence.  [He  chuckles.}  I  shall  be  here  to 
share  your  kisses  with  you! 

[Goes  to  Right  and  sits  on  the  stump  of  a  tree 
there.     The  soldiers  sing'    " Barbara  Allen." 
The  SENTINEL  shows  in  TOM  ADAMS. 
TOM.   Nathan! 
HALE.   Tom! 

[Taking  his  hand,  TOM  throws  his  arm  about 
NATHAN'S  shoulder,  and,  burying  his  head,  sobs 
a  boy's  tears,  NATHAN  comforting  him  for  a 
moment. 

TOM.   Nathan,  you  saved  the  States  ! 
HALE.    [Excited.]     What  do  you  mean?     Was 
there  an  attack  made  on  Harlem  Heights  ? 
TOM.   Yes! 

HALE.   And  Washington  ?  —  Good  God,  don't 
tell  me  he  was  captured ! 


NATHAN  HALE  577 

TOM.  [More  excited.}  No,  of  course  not  — 
thanks  to  your  information ! 

HALE.  [More  excited.}  Hempstead  got  it, 
then? 

TOM.  Yes ;  after  the  men  went  off  with  you,  he 
searched  the  spot,  thinking  perhaps  he  might  find 
something  in  the  bushes,  and  he  did !  He  came 
across  your  wallet ! 

HALE.    [With  joy.]     Ah! 

TOM.  So,  when  the  British  tried  to  steal  up 
the  Hudson  that  night,  they  found  us  ready  and 
waiting,  —  [he  takes  of  his  hat  with  the  manner 
of  paying  homage,  of  being  bareheaded  in  HALE'S 
presence}  your  name  on  everybody's  lips,  your 
example  in  their  hearts  ! 

HALE.  [Stopping  TOM  modestly.}  And  if  you 
hadn't  been  warned  ? 

[Putting  his  two  hands  on  TOM'S  shoulders. 


578  NATHAN  HALE 

TOM.  It  would  have  been  the  end  of  us, 
Nathan.  Washington  himself  says  so ! 

HALE.  [As  if  to  himself,  dropping  his  hands,  half 
turning}  I'm  glad  I  shan't  die  for  nothing. 

TOM.  Nothing?  Oh!  Even  if  your  mission 
had  been  a  failure,  your  example  has  already 
worked  wonders  —  your  bravery  has  inspired 
the  Army  with  new  courage ! 

HALE.  [Taking  his  arm  and  walking  up  and 
down  with  him]  Sh !  None  of  that.  Talk  to  me 
about  Alice.  She  is  here? 

TOM.  General  Howe  has  given  her  permission 
to  see  you,  but  only  for  five  minutes.  Can  you 
bear  it  ?  Will  you  bear  it  for  her  sake  ? 

[They  stop. 

HALE.  Yes: 

TOM.  [Looking  at  CUNNINGHAM.]  Is  this  the 
man  Cunningham?  [HALE  nods.]  Alice  told 


NATHAN  HALE  579 

me  about  him;    we  heard  he  was  your  guard, 

and  she  has  General  Howe's  permission  to  choose 

any  other  soldier  to  take  his  place  inside  the  tent. 

[HALE  looks  at  CUNNINGHAM  with  a  smile. 

CUNNINGHAM.   [Rising.     To  the  SENTINEL,  who 
is  standing  at  one  side.]     Have  you  such  orders  ? 

SENTINEL.    [Stepping    forward,    salutes.]     Yis, 
surr. 

HALE.   [To  the  SENTINEL.]    Very  well,   we'll 
ask  you  to  stay  in  place  of  Cunningham. 

SENTINEL.   Yis,  surr. 

TOM.   [To  CUNNINGHAM.]     Then  you  can  take 
me  to  my  sister  —  now,  at  once. 

[CUNNINGHAM  crosses  to  HALE  and  speaks  to  him. 

CUNNINGHAM.   I'll  be  back  on  the  minute,  when 
your  time  is  finished. 

[He  goes  out  with  TOM,  Right. 

SENTINEL.   [To  HALE.]     I  undershtand,   surr. 


58o  NATHAN  HALE 

Don't  think  of  me  a  minute.  I  must  shtay  in 
the  tint,  of  course,  but  if  iver  a  man  could  git 
away  from  his  body,  I'll  promise  you  to  git  away 
from  moine ! 

[HALE  smiles  his  thanks  and  shakes  the  SEN 
TINEL'S  hand.  The  soldiers  sing  the  air  of 
what  is  now  called  "Believe  Me  If  All  Those 
Endearing  Young  Charms."  HALE  stands 
listening  for  the  sound  of  ALICE'S  coming. 
The  SENTINEL  retires  to  the  farther  corner  of 
the  tent,  and  stands  with  arms  folded,  his  back 
toward  HALE.  TOM  comes  on  first,  bringing 
ALICE.  As  they  come  into  H ALE'S  presence, 
ALICE  glides  from  out  of  TOM'S  keeping,  and 
her  brother  leaves  the  two  together.  They 
stand  looking  at  each  other  a  moment  without 
moving,  and  then  both  make  a  quick  movement 
to  meet.  As  their  arms  touch  in  the  commence- 


NATHAN  HALE  581 

ment  of  their  embrace,  they  remain  in  that 
position  a  few  moments,  looking  into  each 
other's  eyes.  Then  they  embrace,  HALE  clasp 
ing  her  tight  in  his  arms,  and  pressing  a  long 
kiss  upon  her  lips.  They  remain  a  feiv  mo 
ments  in  this  position,  silent  and  immovable. 
Then  they  slowly  loosen  their  arms  —  though 
not  altogether  discontinuing  the  embrace  — 
until  they  take  their  first  position,  and  again 
gaze  into  each  other's  faces.  ALICE  sways, 
about  to  fall,  faint  from  the  effort  to  control 
her  emotions,  and  HALE  gently  leads  her  to  the 
tree-stump  at  Right.  He  kneels  beside  her  so 
that  she  can  rest  against  him  with  her  arms 
about  his  neck.  After  a  moment,  keeping  her 
arms  still  tight  about  him,  ALICE  makes  several 
ineffectual  efforts  to  speak,  but  her  qukering 
lips  refuse  to  form  any  words,  and  her  breath 


582  NATHAN  HALE 

comes  with  difficulty.  HALE  shakes  his  head 
with  a  sad  smile,  as  if  to  say,  "No,  don't  try 
to  speak.  There  are  no  words  for  us."  And 
again  they  embrace.  At  this  moment,  while 
ALICE  is  clasped  again  tight  in  MALE'S  arms, 
the  SENTINEL,  who  has  his  watch  in  his  hand, 
slowly  comes  out  from  the  tent.  TOM  also 
reenters,  but  HALE  and  ALICE  are  oblivious. 
TOM  goes  softly  to  them,  and  touches  ALICE  very 
gently  on  the  arm,  resting  his  hand  there. 
She  starts  violently,  with  a  hysterical  drawing- 
in  of  her  breath,  an  expression  of  fear  and 
horror,  as  she  knows  this  is  the  final  moment  of 
parting.  HALE  also  starts  slightly,  rising, 
and  his  muscles  grow  rigid.  He  clasps  and 
kisses  her  once  more,  but  only  for  a  second. 
They  both  are  unconscious  of  TOM,  of  every 
thing  but  each  other.  TOM  takes  her  firmly 


NATHAN  HALE  583 

from  HALE,  and  leads  her  out,  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  HALE'S  eyes,  their  arms  outstretched 
toward  each  other.  After  a  few  paces,  she 
breaks  forcibly  away  from  TOM,  and,  with  a 
wild  cry  of  "No!  no!",  locks  her  hands 
about  MALE'S  neck.  TOM  draws  her  away 
again,  and  leads  her  backward  from  the  scent, 
her  eyes  dry  now,  and  her  breath  coming  in 
short,  loud,  horror-stricken  gasps.  HALE  holds 
in  his  hand  a  red  rose  she  wore  on  her  breast, 
and,  thinking  more  of  her  than  of  himself, 
whispers,  as  she  goes,  "  Be  brave !  be  brave  ! " 
The  light  is  being  slowly  lowered,  till,  as 
ALICE  disappears,  the  stage  is  in  total  dark 
ness. 

THE  SECOND  SCENE.  COLONEL  RUTGER'S 'Orchard, 
the  next  morning.  The  scene  is  an  orchard 
whose  trees  are  heavy  with  red  and  yellow  fruit. 


584  NATHAN  HALE 

The  centre  tree  has  a  heavy  dark  branch  jutting 
out,  which  is  the  gallows;  from  this  branch  all 
the  leaves  and  the  little  branches  have  been 
chopped  off;  a  heavy  coil  of  rope,  with  a  noose, 
hangs  from  it,  and  against  the  trunk  of  the  tree 
leans  a  ladder.  It  is  the  moment  before  dawn, 
and  slowly,  at  the  back  through  the  trees,  is  seen  a 
purple  streak,  which  changes  to  crimson  as  the 
sun  creeps  up.  A  dim  gray  haze  next  fills  the 
stage,  and  through  this  gradually  breaks  the  rising 
sun.  The  birds  begin  to  wake,  and  suddenly 
there  is  heard  the  loud,  deep- toned,  single  toll  of  a 
bell,  followed  by  a  roll  of  muffled  drums  in  the 
distance.  Slowly  the  orchard  fills  with  mur 
muring,  whispering  people;  men  and  women 
coming  up  through  the  trees  make  a  semicircle 
amongst  them,  about  the  gallows  tree,  but  at  a 
good  distance.  The  bell  tolls  at  intervals,  and 


NATHAN  HALE  585 

muffled  drums  are  heard  between  the  twittering 
and  happy  songs  of  birds.  There  is  the  sound  of 
musketry,  of  drums  beating  a  funeral  march, 
which  gets  nearer,  and  finally  a  company  of 
British  soldiers  marches  in,  led  by  FITZROY, 
NATHAN  HALE  in  their  midst,  walking  alone, 
his  hands  tied  behind  his  back.  As  he  comes 
fonuard,  the  people  are  absolutely  silent,  and  a 
girl  in  the  front  row  of  the  spectators  falls  forward 
in  a  dead  faint.  She  is  quickly  carried  out  by 
two  bystanders.  HALE  is  led  to  the  foot  of  the 
tree  before  the  ladder.  The  soldiers  are  in 
double  lines  on  either  side. 
FITZROY.  [To  HALE.]  Nathan  Hale,  have  you 

anything  to  say  ?     We  are  ready  to  hear  your  last 

dying  speech  and  confession ! 

[HALE  is  standing,  looking  up,  his  lips  moving 
slightly,  as  if  in  prayer.     He  remains  in  this 


586  NATHAN  HALE 

position  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief  and  rest,  looks  upon  the  sympathetic  faces 
of  the  people  about  him,  with  almost  a  smile  on 
his  face. 

HALE.   I  only  regret  that  I  have  but  one  life  to 
lose  for  my  country  ! 

[FITZROY  makes  a  couple  of  steps  toward  him; 
HALE  turns  and  places  one  foot  on  the  lower 
rung  of  the  ladder,  as 

THE   CURTAIN   FALLS 


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